We try to make our own sense
As we dig deep, making some.

And we keep threading poetry
Like the inside out of a pocket

In our trousers from  washing
With the remains of old flower

Like we  probe  washed pants
For a forgotten currency note.

We are mining our childhood
From what remains of a body.

We dig deeper in our washing
And find undiscovered holes.

We have just discovered wind
Hissing as in a mountain pass.

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