a hush, a sound of wing, a falling thing
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ICARUS
isn't anything at all anymore,
he's a worn stone
a book-crease, a mark in ink, a worm
deep inside a heart and winding—
because everything must curl
itself around a form
until it maps it, mimics it
into submission
via duplication,
light under a feather, in plaster
moving faster until it stills
and takes its own place
at the dinner table
with the other simulacra |
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