Poring over chicken-scratch
and badly drawn triangles,
faces shaded with ink that's too dark
and empty spaces too bright
In one eye and out the other,
some theoretical vomit and an unrecognizable
sand dune, a curve traced in aimless footsteps
But outside there is color on the gray; leaves burning themselves for warmth,
failing tests to sear the dull air with a fresh red F for effort
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