Not guilty, I reply,
But do not believe it.
Not really.
Not now.
Beauty and suicide are so close.
Everything is almost something else.
This image that takes you over
And becomes a cosmos,
Is just grain and tone and artifice.
Two dimensions.
Just when you think you have learned all there is
About loss, something will arise to remind you
How little you truly know; another inflection,
A novel- for you-permutation,
A nuance that takes time to parse.
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