Wrong century

by Christos Polydorou

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Imperfect me. A mire,
of errors. A statue
of mistakes. An open

heart, left
gaping, bleeding. Collect
the sea salt, the sea weed,
the blowfish,

in my liver. What was
wrong with him? He
was a fish. But we do not

begin to see humanity’s
cross over, with fish,
until the year
three thousand.

Sometimes I love feeling sad.
Like I am sinking underwater.
Like I am not a man at all,
but a luminous fish.
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