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The cloud stands still, weathered
unmoving…
it hopes for fog
to bridge itself 
to ground, but the heat 
can only mirage at best.

A man sits below, 
having recently scraped a moth 
off his neck, mistaking for a leaf.

The moth, wings still, flutts it’s legs. 

The three sit in their 
desert
places, 
where it is 
mirage at best.
19
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