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Soul, my doubt-colored hollow,
inside a vacant hive, my sun shining
through Papier-mache, the shorn skin
of a pineapple. Follow the words
because language tethers meaning,
the shadow of the thing and the thing
itself, my soul layered in quiet,
each sheathe thinner
You are the man, the ground.
In the cell of your holding,
I forgot why I came, the wave
that drove me to this place
had a name, the pixels of everyday,
the seconds, glass flies, blink
into being. It scares me how
much--waking shrouded in your skin,
your breath on the back
of my neck, my arms crisscrossed
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Author:Falcon, Lane
Publication:The Carolina Quarterly
Article Type:Poem
Date:Mar 22, 2019
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