my head’s getting heavier
under the mellow sound of a hand-pan.
the lows and highs—the valleys, the peaks.
back of my neck grows longer
as the voice of metal deepens.
the brush, the tap—oh, gentle, gentle tap.
the gravity is pulling down—
chin to the chest.
shoulders collapse.
fingers running,
rushing across the terracotta mirror.
Quiet Paragraphs 
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