wicked witch

that can’t be, it can’t
it all floats by on a river of black oily christmas lights
and it can’t
it
can’t be how the furnace kicks steadily behind you and
you’re stuffed you’re
glossy and enamored you
have always wished you could burn the image of something reflected into a thing into that thing forever, like a
photograph in reverse
and the lines get wrong when you
look at them you
just have to feel them
you can’t you can’t take that picture though not without another camera

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