I wrote that in a hard corner cut into the logbook with fishknife whipthin. You know how it was/is.
Trucks on flotsam struggling the brickhill turned back & black the porch of one massive summer.
To watch it crust waft the ice hose rain and plume, from who I am now to what I watched shooting across Omaha when I walked downtown. Something frozen that was&is quite on fire.
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