Plastic bag.

I am not a plastic bag,
perhaps just an organic substance,
materials or objects weighing out,
some unfinished film no one watches,
or a truth lying itself in the mirror.
I am not a plastic bag,
perhaps just an artificial mass
of void, awaiting to be modeled,
a pliable animal, a deformed smile,
a continuous rupture, truncated sculpture.
I am not a plastic bag,
perhaps just the pluck in a suitcase,
pendulous protuberance of life,
an assortment of tricks no one gets,
or a truth lying fuddled in the sofa.
I am not a plastic bag,
perhaps just a bulge in the ruins of
some wall, awaiting to be destroyed,
a seizing animal, an abandoned desire,
a crawling clock, or a patient flame, flaring.

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