where the writers are
White walls covering the red woods

if I open my eyes
in the empty room
white walls covering
the red woods
the trace of telephone cord
in the red ants' dust
white walls covering
the red woods
where a white hare
scorches my proffered palm
a form of solitude
white walls crumbling
the red walls
until the sandglass fills
with the red ants'
labour

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