The end. But I’m still here. Who am I the hand on your shoulder
chair under you asks in you, or that’s all we hear. Until we don’t.
The end. Now for the rest: I stopped telling me what I think
just a groundhog engaged with my parking–space
one of those owls I never see dodging for mice in the shadow
of the mauve sun that limns; hides in clever limitations
even we are. No it’s not me she said, reaching way up to
unscrew the bulb. But it’s already far too hot.
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