This bungalow is my sorrow. Sandwich for lunch.
Peanut butter the shape of the Buddha.
The ceiling is low, it is low and broken by a cupola.
A pocket of skin not sky, the cupola is a vagina.
This bungalow is my sorrow. Get to the truth.
Send the right thought down down the laundry chute.
I lie and every time I do it's the mousetrap.
It bites off fingertips. Snap, I can't snap.
Regard all phenomena, said the book, as coming from the self.
But who closed your eyes and picked that book from the shelf.
Whose dumb finger found that blind line...
Out the window, so many trees. Some must be real, some imaginaries.
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