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Natalie Eilbert, by User 4357

There’s no there there. A sweet empty 

vacuum bag smells of industry, 

its provenance. I try a xylophone

note, a sound like burnt yellow. 

Approximations don’t

mimic, they stand in a room 

full of doors. My legs 

are hungry for money, 

hang over a man’s ribs. 

I argue I am trying to be myself 

when I sever a cucumber. Each

object presents its presiding objects. 

An elbow grinds

into a caramelizing thigh bruise. 

I remove an article, an

article too particular to understand. 

Kitten breathes shaped

as a pair of slumped lungs. 

I must laugh at my brain fog,

seran wrap over my eyes. 

Is authorship anything? I am a

single combination of cells, 

dander under a god nail 

duplicating. I press my thumb 

to my femoral nerve until

a white light blinks myself open. 

You enter me, a door

warped. Rest in the crease there.

1 thought on “Natalie Eilbert, by User 4357

  1. so much there there tho, whew!

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