far too much into our reality
we copy it after it slips away
while running all our spokes
a motor cycle in eight form
in its centifugal pull to reality

stir your machine to an eight
and your compass will appear
but your north is everywhere
slipping away to a south lea,
froth at stern, a hill drowned,
a white bird ducking the real

copy is not reality but vision
in white hollows of a cranium
an attempt to capture reality
with only the shell remaining
we hold on to like dying men.


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