The people hunched
blotched colors one tries
to force meaningful
but they only blended
until the stench stemmed
from each of us
His car smelled like 1923.
You can feel that
someone was here
but they won't let you
see him
A lens is just a roundness
that chooses who to take
capture
usurp into exhibit
I'm a part of that
The crowds are erupting with tongues of necessity
the licking is sanguine
with slippery speech
I can't translate it anymore
for I may be that delicate
kind of lazy
that yawns upon devastation
but cries at silence
It doesn't even need water.
Nothing I've made has sprung
quite like this before
I think there may be joy
in the soiled scaffolding
of such palpable hope
and these tiny fingers
trace the lines of earth
until they are parallel to the start
angled at end
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