Let’s overlay our separate sights and match our lenses on the common sphere, perhaps the rippled sheets over unmade bed, the children’s toy stranded out at fancied sea, the patterned grain of table top or knuckle tops, glued pieces of porcelain, loyal hands, stronger in their breaking, the current, empty sense of being. And this common place, equidistant, ours and not ours, the overgrown roundabout, unlikely oasis, is where life’s interest plays out unseen, unheard, at once abundant to the mind out-turned.


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