But Still...
look. Through the glass, a man sits in the chair.
The ultra-blue glaze of his stare cuts back.
Minor hostilities of your fellow auteurs voyeurs a click, a cough, the scuff of a heel - usher
you out of the aisle of his eye.
Pick the v of skin that curls loose
from the frame of your thumbnail. Separate
but not. Hanging in the spaces.
The lines of his face, acres of dead code,
carved for another easy extinction.
But still, you should know
whatever happens through that glass
will be because you opened your hands
will be because you craved.
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