It leaves small circles of absence It’s been there that long. Diagonally Laid it consents to bring rolled In old news, it’s head and feet Wrapped like a long thin corpse sent Into oblivion, the crinkling song Of paper shrouds like a bell tolled. Made into a packed thing your Champagne flute waits, holds It’s breath. A fragile promise Of survival. An understanding Of revival from seeming death.
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