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It is floating somewhere
Where I don’t know
Perhaps it is moving

Over an orange grove
In Venezuela    It
May not even be above
Ground    Could be a pocket
Of air floats in a tar
Pit blanketing the bones
Of a million gold fish
In Siberia
Perhaps I alone am
Immortal    Wherever
You are Last Breath    I know

Nothing about you
Except your taste    You
Taste like forty acres
Of snow in Nebraska