on subjectivity

flesh was flesh,
always the same.
there was no distinction between 1,
7.7 billion
or twenty eight.

the difference was in what moved it,
what took it from one room
to the hall
then to the next.
what made it write, live, love,
what made it what is– what was,
what made it get up
what made it rest.

but flesh was flesh.

nothing interesting in the movement of hands,
only in what made them tremble, dance.
or the feet,
the eyes,
the lips,
the head,
the arms,
the legs,
the neck,
the chest;
the only interesting thing in them,
was what picked their interest.

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