song in the sky
unhurry may's ending, will you? share with a swallow the demented potential
that is hardly work, more fixture of biotics
in the peeled glassy fruit bowl
that i worry over, all the time
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i am the core and i am the dry winter rye bread
and i am the crayon
this orange red bark dusts off a cedar beam
imagine clucking in a room made in 1893
spiky horse hair stuck in the plaster wall
what's in that? and that thin snail
trail back to the shell? my porcelain urn
where i go when my burning body fates out
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blessed hit with a mop and soaped
to smash the intimate within
there is no cleaning product
thorough enough
to rinse the flashing
blasting surface
that has a skin
that looks like me
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