Cutouts

Cold water crawling over bare feet.
Eating the heat in collaboration with
the air. An unknown bag camouflages itself
in the weeds, full of money, and metal, and
the kind of glass that melts into the shapes
you provide for it.

Something else, with eyes that see more
clearly in the dark, looks us over from a
distance and bides its time. We carve sharp                                                                                    edges into anything we can find, and point                                                                                         them at everything; including ourselves.

Cardboard cutouts of white silhouettes
represent no one, and are left outside
to deteriorate slowly. Their shadows are
like clocks ticking away with the orbit of
the earth. Moving closer and closer to
the ending of one thing or another.

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