in a middle of a room
stands a suicide
sniffing a Paper rose
smiling to a self
somewhere it is Spring and sometimes
people are in real:imagine
somewhere real flowers,but
I can't imagine real flowers for if I
could,they would somehow
not Be real
but I will not
everywhere be real to
you in a moment
The is blond
with small hands
everything is easier
than I had guessed everything would
be;even remembering the way who
looked at whom first,anyhow dancing
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