Fissures

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I stacked my attention around me but doing so now harbored no fissures in which to snare a

sweet
wiggling
word

They once

washed in
on tides

of feeling,
iridescent rage

rough rope restrained binding my typing hand

fissures-
crevices-
eddies-

shelves-
corners-
surfaces-

where little
worries grow
like moss-

and get rotted in their self- propagating at mos phere and leave me speech less

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