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A poem

in the clogged wash tap root to the base of its shoot like an upward growing yew little breadcrumbs at my feet those kids leave spilling milk and dust. I will be at a foreign land walking through the year, if I am fortunate I will write to meet you. I look for you when sun sets orange those days gone and washes clogged, I wait for the wind to blow past me past you, past the shore, last day grand exhilarating blades of my chin snipping crashed open and ribs crushed, a broken sac of phlegm like orphans without place, an ant walks over me even an ant walks over me. Crystal that alchemists brew into the luxe jar till it sets has my face only to scatter in myriads what I am not what is not, towards brethren and homeland heart beats in lane insane like the nutter who killed himself, echo unheard and verbs withdraw at the earliest a poet is also a poet’s enemy, unspoken melodies sweeter unless sung will you walk back clogged drains de-clogged dreams pulled out breath, sky and tide, fire remains. Reminds your murder in the ring. A lover is one who waits a lover is one who is torn separated that she gouts like a haven- pipe, truth swarming like a firefly blazing like a blazing star before the shower drenched not yet waiting for verdict To get rid of you that’s me who nudges give it to me give it to me handsome face, high bone belle I am forgotten for I am cold to oblivion I am irresponsible for memory that has old crapes in your chest to cherish I burn them away. I do not abide heat, I do not let light in opaque to serve fresh dish hot out of the buttered bowl closed not to mistake the pick doesn’t matter anymore my moore’s ecstasy is the gnaw. I want cold country song to play in a cozy winter bar musician’s tight nerves sin-sin-nating “lord I can’t go back home, this ole way” shadows new on frost and the life I haven’t walked to My days are pressed into you I walk the room like a squire, square cot at the corner life at rest my call list filled, beginning not to end. A lover is one who waits for last letter had words like cone stuck to wool, gifted fortune you shall have it a lover is one who waits whirr of the machine stops legs loose hands down. 2021, unedited

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