Untitled no. 5

And sometimes,

in the distance,

I swear I hear

the empty rattle of

stringed tin cans –

but it is only you,

after all.

You,

leaning to hold

my ear to this

sound –

holding it open and

pouring in your

words,

words,

and more words.

Talk.

I have no time for talk

I dream with my eyes

Open.

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