A simple prop. A newspaper.

The poet posits. The poem conducts.

For him, death will lie
Open like a newspaper in a dream,
A paper he ransacks his apartment for,
And when he lays his hands on it at last,
As he smooths the crinkled page to read,
He will simply spread before his face
Not a page but, oddly a black comet,
Or rather a rococo ornament in empty space
Hanging intriguingly before his eyes,

And the enjambement jumps to another stanza. And note that in this stanza there are no full stops.

Gjertrud Schnackenberg
“A Monument in Utopia”
A Gilded Lapse of Time

And so for day 2623

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