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Some numbers flow like molasses:
when you pick a coiled wire and place it over a table desk and copy
the meandering forms it easily creates at the same instance of a pick-up
phone happenstance about which a talk revolves and a cry becomes a lie,
a sheath
of dried, sun-burnt bolt offers an ice-cream-like-drip whose flow
forwards toward a set of digits like strangers' city touching each
morning taps without knowing whose face it beckons and which line
it imitates.
And some numbers flow in haste.
when you pick a coiled wire and place it over a table desk and copy
the meandering forms it easily creates at the same instance of a pick-up
phone happenstance about which a talk revolves and a cry becomes a lie,
a sheath
of dried, sun-burnt bolt offers an ice-cream-like-drip whose flow
forwards toward a set of digits like strangers' city touching each
morning taps without knowing whose face it beckons and which line
it imitates.
And some numbers flow in haste.
Labels: Cellphone Conversations, Sylvia Plath
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