A house on my body
There’s no
possible hiding place here,
vanity or
mirror.
It’s sharp
translucent structure,
limpid and
deserted.
A house on my body
of an
uncomfortable rationalism,
broken
Japanese harmony,
unfair and
icy balance
no altars
or flowers no photos
no family,
just a
passing through and insomnia ,
heritage and
artifice.
A house on my body.
No one has
been left here.
No children.
No men. No ideas.
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