Fog cuts the city—
zigzagged lines of unskilled hands
that first picked up a saw.
Like the mirror,
broken above the sink.
But you can see lines that bisect
and twist across your face.
Everything is muffled.
The type of silence you only sing about.
JKolasch
I really like the images in this. The haphazard fog, the broken mirror; especially the kind of fog you only sing about. Lonely, but profound…
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