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I am living in the margins

of my other people’s days,

passing time with neither

world nor breath to call my own.

Lacking all the solid bones of memory,

and clutching at the ghosts

of sinews that might bind me,

soul to earth,

I drift inside this hard half-space

where vision slides away to dark periphery

and every act is more supposed than seen.

Here, the ways of being me are fled,

and I am only lightly felt by those

whose lives flow past me

as the sand across the stone,

eating me to smooth and small.

Such margins are no place to be alive.


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