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Page 133

Sometimes I leave my body, securely embedded
in its hole in space (no danger of a leak)
and look around. It's such a relief
not to be squeezed into the hole assigned me --
a vacation. I can be as large or as small
as I please, can fill any or no space...
and -- I don't know if I should be
happy about this -- no one notices
I've been gone. It's like leaving these letters
on the page; reader, have you noticed
I'm not here, haven't been for a long time,
perhaps was never here?

Perhaps no one notices because no one else
was there to notice -- all the others, like me,
on vacation, leaving their habit-driven flesh
to mark their place. Or perhaps they are
so pre-occupied with filling their holes in space
that, like anyone who becomes his job, status,
credit cards, family, lover, opinions, etc., so that he
can no longer conceive himself as separate
from them, these people have become their bodies,
head, eyes, tongue, shifting pressures in
the brain, genital tingles -- so many ways
not to be here.

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