Inhaled just enough into the evening
to be drawn in a woodland scene
on that street shaped like an L
we can never seem to find
unless we stop paying attention
or turn the attention around
like reading those slow books
of our youth, the massive ones
always leading in a new direction
despite staying on the same road
at least it would if I replaced a few
chips in the meditation machine
the registers revert too easily
as the coming of night repeated
folding back on to itself
in a cascade of shadows
extra pieces and parts falling out
on the unkempt ash of the way
gradually map the mind at play
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