I like to whittle;
I like to whittle pieces
of my life away,
discard.
I like the shaping
into nothing,
the insistent pruning.

I’ve never met a thing
I couldn’t throw away
like progression,
or finality of form.
I could erase myself.
remake myself.
outgrow myself,
come back to face
it. I never understood
why I had to repeat
nothing means a thing to
me so much
as I do now.

it’s the process I’m
obsessed with, not
the form.

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