every evening,
for twelve years,
i would contemplate
my navel,
a nightly session
with my knotted
in which
i would inspect
the cleft
to see what the day
had left.

the daily deposit
would be scraped out
and stockpiled
into shoe boxes
until i had enuff
of the stuff
to knit you a scarf
of scraped fibres,
a lint-stitched
a belly button

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