The Moya View
at what point do shadows becomenumbers and numbers become dustis it when sunlight and moonlight crossthe eye into our anatomical darknesswhen the zero circle helixes into shortexistence a rose, a cell, a dying memorywhen raindrops no longer liquefaction, leaving umbrellas a meaningless propor the grid that passes over unnoticed during the slow, long ride to the hospitalmaybe, the strobe of lights that moves from office cubicle to office cubiclepossibly the shadows that dance while you clean precisely calibrated glassestry to focus on those rain smeared figures now in your field of viewremembering they once were you on the half lit steps staring into the darkwatching the three triangle flapping of the crow over the tarmac
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JONATHAN MOYA
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