probe / zuzka vaclavik


boticelli hides under his perfect scallop traversed shell
white draining bleach water, pounding and deepening the drone
holds his breath. after all, waits. high to low pressure.
wind. nothing is magical anymore. everything is a mark
on a long list of cryptographs that makes your eyes bleed
open your eyes and see a figure blowing vapors across your eyes
close your eyes and imagine deeper connections
not the constant peering into
though we need it like bread
shall we now ananlyze touch and break our fingers
contact ink onto another page, feel the weight
of a sliced green fissure undergoing photosynthesis
still we probe, but what about dream
a slender lady is just paint, her hair the opposite of motion
caregivers fall apart. moldy canvases.
perfectly spotless floors where people used to gaze and speak
silence broken by cracks and hand held metal instruments

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