A slipped pattern
patois of looped
rustlers ripped
rug from under
a slim geometry
kept underneath
fair weather and
sole ghosts of
seconds and minutes
psyche to voice
well tangled to
a torch
segmented stitch
perls and subsets
keep fast
to circulation
my x, y and z
sonder murmurs
and in this tot
of umwelt
By night I am on the grass
my back wet from
last night’s rain
my front towards
this pin dotted constellarium.
Ariel Riveros Pavez 
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