“[Then there is this dream with its other bright edges]” Niina Pollari

Then there is this dream with its other bright edges,
a piece of paper spread over the flowering field,

thin as a reflection. You know what’s wound
tight there, wanting to undo.

Even when you don’t look, it is still there,

all brazen and sting, all blast-net of stars:

a single-walled room that is eating itself,

one big hole of hallway,
pale and crustacean. And inside it,

the milk-film bristles with light. Inside,

you keep filling with water,

and the water keeps filling with copies of you.

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