That still thing
Orange juice in a glass
Even at a moment
We diffuse it
Into three
Past present future
We are the particle participant
The wanting wave
We wait
Even when the train has arrived
Ohhhhh One
Is many
Run
That glass has broken
In this poem
Is volcanic sand
Is stardust at the end of all cold expansion
But between lines
What is it
Barely Orange
Cooling or heating
Invisibly
Suspension
Indifferent to every pattern
Even as I am
Between two thoughts
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