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In between grand people

with grandparents

parading their differences

airing the skilled impulse to penetrate

shake things up a bit

in front of an audience of one

the kid in the overstuffed chair

fills the room, absorbing everything

Microfilming the past

Xeroxing a portrait of dots

pigment confined inside circles

crowding the space within the image

next to the buttons dangling from tiny hands

eager to press and watch everything explode

into a mechanical tango

Pretending fingers on hands have turned

into brothers and sisters

with whom the abundance of toys can be shared

inside a drab room with flaking walls

like bark in an abandoned dacha

miles away from your city

stocked with your people

ruled by a child in the monkey suit

mouth smeared

parading the pain

A being who survives at all costs

playing the role of the Russian romantic

stabbing at the curvature

the line

that leads back to the large rooms

back to the emptiness.

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