In a nearly incomprehensible situation
of books and pianos, I think I have seen
a representation of her. The Arabic script
on her body, the repeated words in verses
populating the shelves. I am myself
in another situation, the horoscopes
and prophesied futures have expressed
a convoluted beloved. In a nearly
incommensurate pattern of names and words,
I think I have comprehended her. I am
another or an impression in the early
morning hours. In a nearly incomprehensible
sequence of phonemes, the truth I am
is obscured by ephemerides and veils.
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