Postmodern
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I wonder how long
this is going to take
to be free of you
light echoes and envelops
and organizes space
there is an instinctive grasp
of fractals, nature’s patterns
variation leads to dislocation
an existential unease
Rothko’s color blocks
brick me in
while outside birds are pinned
to the sky
I thought I would soar
even after the pork-butcher babies came
resembling and reassembled
I built a ramshackle house
scraped and painted over
earlier histories
my younger self
feather earrings and tasseled skirts
squeegee my face