.
It is only mourning
For the mind's
Lost moment
That has
Preserved
Like an echo of time
In these rustlings from the past
A touch of fabric
Of metal
Or of wood
A presence
The living moment
Continues to miss
The power of time
Imposes itself
In the materiality
Of the objects
And textures
This infinitely specific
World which
Also
Will begin to decay
The moment
We look away
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