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wToy planes, grown men ww7 July 2010

I am struggling with death
I do not think it belongs to me,
I miss its breath on my cheek
and cannot tell whether it is
narcotic, hypnotic or merely
acrid: it seems as lost to me
as grown men with toy planes
pressing buttons.
What is this state which plants
morbidly in other soils?
I cannot tell this grain apart
from other rarer species.
I do not know grief and have
only found its shadow among
the living, lost to me