A year turns into another year
oh dear
2ce as old and double as dum
how queer

The object of poetry is death, in some sense.
Object. I hear you hold the word, let it fall down your legs with hair
Rigt here. I don't know whether Im feeling lonely or alienated
I ____ I feel like I was more beautiful 18 weeks ago.
The novelty of waking up has gone.
I hold you in front of me but you dont reply.
Ive touched no one since you / Progress
is understanding the place where you started from.
Ha bubu favorited my tweet
Bubu retweeted me
Bu's gone baby

The object of poetry is met, in some tense
At a table, you read the future
themes of yr poetry:
Your sins don't reply.
A dialogue begins. A
dialogue begins at home.
You move to the Global South
Bae Something unfamiliar enters your mouth – a word,
or is it a sound? - comes out
The object of poetry greets you.

Bu messagd me
I saw the picture of you on the grass – the picture of poetr – the grass
outside the city. I saw you pose for the picture, imagined
the picture wait for you. I heard you say if I wasnt male
I woldnt wait for you. The object of poetry is set. That
if I wasnt male then whose fingers would it be rn
on the inside of the bones around my lungs.
Som1 asks me if that's my water, if they
can have some. Ppl are always
asking me what I'm working on. Well,

The object of poetry's death.
The object of poetrys debt, in some strange sense
the object of poetry's met.

A year turns in to another year
*feel freer*
2ce as old and covered in com
how queer.

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