where the writers are
Until a lilac grove

everything you search for searches itself along with you
until the roads scrape
into speechless cascades
on the being’s lunar face

all you see sees itself along with you
until the rain of eyes hachures
the muscular meanings
with such a moist blinding

everything you hear hears itself along with you
until a whirl of ears
submerges your head
tumefied with silence

everything you touch feels itself along with you
until the skin under feverish tactile concentration
garments the words’ meanings
with luminescent sores

everything you smell inhales itself along with you
until a lilac grove
explodes into
your attentive nostrils

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