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Revisiting the Introspective Forest

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the bark subjective, roots indistinct
everything is singular here
it’s as if this place were a machine
rendering its own capital

the leaves float to the earth floor
in a graceful struggle
and are kept alive
by glow and soil

if Sartre were here
he would grimace
and grow wings
and f*** in the trees



(grandeur)
if only it existed
somewhere other than
behind my eye sockets and
didn’t sound
so sappy



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