A Troy’s horse like, gloom
Suffocative in a room of mirrors
While otherness is not around.
No numbers, letters, colors, scents…
Or it is just the presence of totally mistaken unknown, perceptions
As though being pushed from some tree home
Scratching tin with nails and teeth
A taboo after another, along…
That was long before you reached for that self-cloning, and me, to stretch not but just for tobacco..
Parting as though none, had ever been a child of mistake,
A bee you’re not, niether an echo of that hive in skull
Summing up
A third stage of watching
Flies, cats,
Now, candle flames.
Scale Fixing 