I am an island.
I am stretched out like a star-fish on a knuckled back.
Empty sky. Black sea.
Black sky. Empty sea.
Where are the other islands like me?
Things now and again, out of some spontaneous caprice,
brush up against my hairs and lines, but they aren't
other islands.
They're things of the drift, the aqueous air, the airy aqua.
As far as I've been able to ascertain, I am stranded out here
all alone with no face to touch or no hand to grab.
I am an island that has nothing to caress but the void.
Despite my unbearable loneliness, I relish the moments
I have with my fingernails.
They're sweet and attractive.
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