What has vision won for me -
a crisis of blurring shapes?
I witness my tracing what grows
as it goes.
At times, I yearn
to tear these waves off the shore -
wear upon my shivering fingers
these shorn limits.
And then I see my fingers:
they lead me to
lines, lines, lines.
Everything that I am
is the illusion of a horizon.
a crisis of blurring shapes?
I witness my tracing what grows
as it goes.
At times, I yearn
to tear these waves off the shore -
wear upon my shivering fingers
these shorn limits.
And then I see my fingers:
they lead me to
lines, lines, lines.
Everything that I am
is the illusion of a horizon.
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