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I always talk about poetry 
as if
being in a room --

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* This is how I have been trained - at least;

It is usually a white room:

bright salt dark cobalt blue, rich mineral soil
i We adjusted the number you entered based on the slider’s scale.

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* I am usually alone in that room 

like salt, or cobalt, 

you have been here before, and

like you, others:

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* We all leave traces; sweet water, monkey form, form, or not.

Some of us disappear

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* Some of us are made to disappear:

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* Or was it this?

  I never liked pears; they are gritty. A mouthful of syrup and sand.

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* How do you make someone disappear?

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* I sometimes think about poetry 

as if

[formed or formless or form]

those hundreds
those thousands

were not traces, 

were diamonds with Lucy, were true salt
were something close to baby sky hue,

and no more buried cobalt

[Alex Saum] and you:

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