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by Kushal Poddar

Sunday. I saw dots
in everything. The skin
blue of sky. The woodpiles.
The clown doll. Blow my nose.

I saw zeroes, a glimpse
of those waiting for me
all their lives, all mine.
They come back. I poke

their hollow belly, their
unrestrained within.
Here goes my finger,
gets wet, jellied, weakens
lets go the hold of being. 


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