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snow mold fading -
green appearing,
potholes galore.
manhole belching early -
three hundred days of this,
more to come
lots of drink down here
lots of skin, too -
new moon death
I have a book up here
south side of town
sands by the beach
plane ticket to France
like a "fuck thou" ode to you
if I had the balls
they sound like you
every word I'm gonna say
like jazz joints
I'd have breakfast
smashed in the bottle, drowned
ghosting in, lost
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