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Æons on the Fringe. 

behind my back, my star
adding ambiance
to the moment

from an average of eight
minutes and twenty seconds
(plus sensory perception
of time) away: 

the past,
the dead, giving life
a chance as always… 

We are sustained
by luminous ghosts.

Harvesting, leveling
the land
for new habitation.

of knowing that æons 
actually begin and end.  

below the horizon,
calling out
to me. Are you drowning,

asphyxiating in a style of space
that only exists
passed that far edge?


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