Spiraling, I know,But up, I hope, and out,Or circling the drain,Teasing the crisis, Not going down.
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Lost on my father’s sky gray patioHe tossed a cup of stale pine needlesFrom the dying Christmas treeInto the rusting fire pitExtinguishing itCoughing The damp…
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they held hands with pocketsleaning back on pavement paintedunder Hilma Klint cosmossliding headfirston their backsinto that wellThe Sun tuned into the voices in the backwhispering…