In exchange for my time,
an abstraction.

An idea of what it could be at the other end,
should it come.

Each clings to another,
as a partner once would.

Walking in bone fragments through your supposed ocean,
webbed-toe-curl-crunch of certainty disbelieving.

I’ll never make it back to the path,
the past still winds me imprisoned.

Network-weaved-rigidity inescapable,
squarey-calculus-confines, killing crosses, section by section.

Seduction by seduction,
abduction construction.

An influx crux,
and callous subliminal mime.


Greg Fiddament
Illustration Nick Victor

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