guts can't handle this. this trail, perched on
the tree in the back that isn't blocking the view anymore
sawdust wrinkles its way up my sleeves, a kindred
warning of subterfuge hits the base station
hits the vortex. careening into another valley
the backwards run up the bluff hindered by
allegations, hearsay, blinding lights at night
back to the moon. my spacecraft sits in remission
tied to a streetlamp,
i'll sit on the curb, i'll sit in remission as winter closes in
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