Nothing happens that’s worth poetry.
Still shops. Still roads. Still stars gasping into stiller skies.
Still self, secluded. Aching, gnawing into itself. Taken out of usefulness.
There. An inventory of all names and their meanings.
All still objects must beg for reasons to be remembered.
[ Note: this is also called metaphor.]
Movement, I know, is the only thing worth capturing.
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