Saturday, November 12, 2016


Targeting the meadowlark, and
coming down from the hilltop abode;
if I get either wrong, I'll pay dearly.
There's only small room for error here,
in the funhouse of the misanthropic.
Let me look at blue light as the sun
goes down; once behind that hill it's
over quickly. We roll into dark like
a Juicyfruit cover, and I know if
I lounge on this grass, the thistle
will keep me there forever.

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