Saturday, April 10, 2004
poetry
listens to my fingers
press the keys
so
whatever
is nothing
is real
creating reality
for each of us
the others
they are never here
the others
begin where we end
when we stop
and listen to each other
because the value is never
quite lost
when the clacking and
pressing of keys
never ceases
will never cease
we are gone
these are gone
no
i am here
and so are you
nowhere man 3:03 PM
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