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  • Who is here when we're gone?

    Are we here when we're gone? What sand in heat become glass do we belong to

    when we are gone

    do we belong to the melt in the blown glass vase, do we yearn to hang in Dale Chihuly chandeliers, do we morph, crawl, ooze across desert atmospheres, back where we came from, in some sorta sirocco, some kinda malfunctioning dune explosion, where do we go

    when we go?

    Do we go at all?

    Can we exit?

    Are we formless, even with form?

    Is our flesh a mirage?

    Is my espresso more real than me?

    Those filigree circles on the plate...they know something about shape.

    We might be the divine stain on the morning coffee glass.

    Tart, never bitter, a small caffeine spoor in patio sunshine. That might not be a bad way to be.

    (Photo by Susan, May 28 2016, Toronto, the garden)
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