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By Igor Goldkind

I folded my mother up
Into a creased peace of paper
Folding memories into intentions.
Flattening the dementia of unstructured emotions
Into a neat, file-able document.

We arc this abyss; tightening ropes over time.
We are not our worst intentions,
but we are the acts that follow.
Like clobbering footsteps tripping
Over broken pavements of Being.

We are not the sum of our categories
or the crimes that we have witnessed
But we are the balance
That keeps us falling forwards, without stumbling
Over our own shoelace sense of time.

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