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Miles can be closed,
but not without a scar
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Books say bipedalism exposes the weak underside;
every human standing in a swamp
contemplates this
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Some days I wish to shout your name from the highways
in the erratic hope that you will come swiftly
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It hisses and I cannot tell
whether it will rain or
if everyone is in a hurry
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Swollen
with sounds of the city
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Bound to the wires and wands,
the bells ring and the roads clack,
but through its heart, it does not flutter,
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The surgeon lives downstairs, listening
as the street fights echoing with metal in the alley
bring his pen to tap on Sunday’s oceanograph
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Beauty revolves around a certain grace,
Whether in preference, the feral and the tranquil,
is decidedly best on certain terms;
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Fancy how much thriving care
as it sprials in trenches,
sewers underground and wars the same;
-
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With coffee planning to revive
The ailing spirit and broken course
While the journalist worries for the day
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Let your old, starving journalist touch you
And tell the tale that left her so;
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A nymph in confusion, flighty
As each flower opens as a prospective gift,
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Between nature and humanity,
The former is supremecy
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Fret not, stay armed
Bring hooks over the shoulder
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Lovely sometimes to don a sunrise,
Heavier, the weighted earth
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Torture
As sleep is disturbed
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Real and tangible with knowledge,
And yet so giving as to stow away quiet beauty
For a still day when all seems meant for peace
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Take what is learned
And slice it into the skin
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Yet in crouching fingers made from stone and grass,
Night can overturn and rest, perhaps sleep, into the years
-
For in synch the eye, tongue, and heart must so deftly be
That foreign and familiar emotion dare not trickle in like lonely rain
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And so is the revival / Of the nonsense we toasted upon / In nocturnal hours of mechanical invasion; / A revolution meant to stir us into flavor / Headlights reflected on the dash / And old Sunday mornings somb
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The sordid lines only grew so much, / My Cyrano only a chalk outline / As his memory was pawned / And honesty pacified into slumber; / Let a writer come forth over the horizon / As rings fall from ladies’ fingers pl
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Suddenly schizophrenia seems warm / In this rush of welcoming and commencement / Though unforgiving in mind and matter, / But where have I gone? / Off to nowhere without a difference / To remain in one space le
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Book / Clubs / And the pounding of my / Heart / As I mined and upturned / The reaches of my brain / Worked with dirt / And / Spade in hand
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The book she held so cautiously to be given
To his pronounced notes as he leaped from
His generous tree
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"This should be illegal" / As we giggled in our happy pair / With wary clerks shuffling over meat counters; / A substance most obvious / As we held it out for the crowd / Saying: "I love it more" / "No,
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There's a fire, / Wild, wild, spiraling / As he digs into my arms, dizzying / For this throng of passion / We will be the sacrifical right
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Then to my quarters I would stay
And loathe the idea of skipping the magnificence
Of the howling and baying wolves in such a distance
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Carmen, red-haired blonde
With a card up her sleeve
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To those much like this badge I wear,
These clothes and ring of people,
To see inner peace and a love since disguised
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As their lifeless story ends under bridges
By the water lilies, they are blue as water
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As the road sputtered with rain
Where a black umbrella meant unhappiness
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But I imagine you adore my shuffling
Of white rabbit feet;
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Twisted splendor in the form
Of lace and white powdered worms
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