R Nemo HIll

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Pastel


I long to fade from action

into stupefaction,

slipping through the cracks

that restless fullness lacks.


I can no longer choose

between primary hues.

I crave complete collapse

into pastel gaps.


In torn mint and mallows,

by terracotta shallows,

where the gnat’s lavender eye

kindles heat in a sigh;


on a vanishing palette, where black

is blind, and white is mute—

lay me on my back,

in brown mud and gray suit.














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