CHEAT

by Ryo Yamaguchi

 

 

The vendor calls the sandwiches by what’s not
on them. We are localized—everything
is at risk; the season hangs in a stiff haw.
As a way of being instituted, I have been copied.
I have been made in the image. O heuristic
of common motion, to where do I walk
when this has all gone to sleep? Will I be known
by what has gone missing?

 

 

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