put paper into confetti
and then they are little minutes
composed and graceful
as they float into existence
their tides high and cold
their locus bought and sold
they are me, but they used to be
someone in the line of life
somewhere within a shower
of sparks and party lovers
but the end was low
and I was alone alone
ready with my tummy out
wrinkly hands and needy child
so selfish, so so hard
to be spoken within
a thousand tongues
that fluttered through
a gentle breeze
sparkled on concrete
to frieze art as love
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