Some pain does not go away put
In boxes it squirms like a roach
Piles and piles of moving parts
Pieces of little pieces of a little heart.
I remembered eyes your
Slivers of the room, white
Crescent round the moon
That drank in light: eclipse --
I have packed my life into boxes.
The room is cardboard;
I have brought it down. Once
The clock would touch, pendulum
The pending varnish: we were such.
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