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"Everything is transient," he says.
On that morning, when we mull
over a pot of Lady Grey
lit by a peach trifle of a sunrise,
this is only one take on the matter.
He is Hegel and Henri Bergson and Hume
and also a charlatan. Lost in honey
awash with the swells of Goma's eye
and now I feel like scallops.

I want to dive into the unfathomable depths of your green eyes.
I want to defy death on a lilo, reaching for the golden haze of a prosperous welcome.
I want to tug a submarine behind me, bubbling an aria, buoyed by the shadow of Taweret.
I want to steer a catamaran over calm oceans under Yayoi Kusama's mirrored boredom.

He knows I can't swim.
I am left on the shore.

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