Against cupboard
door,
neck strained,
hoisting a fat black
camera,
to catch carpet
alight,
before hope
sinks down,
and that I am
not dying,
empty of effort...
how sharp, yet fading
fast...
as I lower
want edges
to everything,
especially thinking,
speckles of dark wool,
brown standing mirror,
without the usual
apprehension,
am I too round
or square,
to divide
the momentum,
either by knife
or hook,
it's a beckoning
call, from that great
big hole in the roof,
it's going to be missed,
run for the machine,
or of how I catch, alight?
a burning wedding,
for a time...
until the fire
of moments are caught,
sealed in a vacuum!
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