Binary


I’m looking for the details of her day
like
twisted rubber against her wrist
and
whittled teeth, white to the root
but
I don’t have the eye for it.
Not for her rivered veins
nor
the molten nova of her iris.
So she doesn’t indulge me
or
trust my assurances
or
read my prosaic poetry
and
I don’t make the effort.


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