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untitled
Garbage bags hang lately
from the eve of the cathedral.
There is a mouse asleep in the steeple.
The sidewalk translates a thin language
of I-am-not-alone and I-am-gone-away.
The sounds of sirens no longer mean.
Goodbye is a bowl of pinto beans.
Learning this carefully, a cloud
moves over every inch and never
touches anything anyway. I, repeatedly
quiet through the hard parts.
The tick works its talk inside the light bulb.
A cotton ball in the isopropyl rubbing alcohol.
I take my hand out of my pocket. The day
is rearranged. I put my hand in my pocket.
The name is, I accept.
Above my laundry-hang-pool-drain
lonely little green back yard, some
dumb and utterly
demonstrative bird
feathered the sky with my yesterday.
Pray, that I may get quickly through today.
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