isolation 
is splendour, is the 
gentle idea of being 
alone with a swirling 
feeling deep within, 
the sense of a circular 
repetition of moments 
like swirls of snow caught 
up in what looks like the 
same wind, over and over 

all of it is made up of 
curves. lapses and cool 
repentance. how the ocean 
consumes itself again at the 
thought of reaching out too 
far, drying out in the sun, or 
the grass-laden steps we 
re-tread on top of themselves, 
returning to the earth’s folds 

circle games and spiralling 
out into nothing, collapsing 
into a soft gradient behind 
scattered, unintelligible wings. 
swallows are said to fly with 
their mouths open; life absorbs 
their light and someday swallows 
them whole, unhindered. they 
probably were just trying to win 
at a game they know too well 

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