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Tape-worm
I heard the hammer of the law, pounding
His naked confusion in a blue-white haze, ground to its quarks and laid
Out on an asphalt canvas, seasoned salt and peppered the wounds.
He grew a stubble that day. Mid-July centre-piece among
Obituaries, in tiny typeface 1.
(Many had died that month)
No one's going to know how, but he'll be loved anyway.
I heard the hammer of the law, circling
Yellow tape-worms around the front doors of innocents, slathering love
In the substance of its fears. She wouldn't visit anymore, she wouldn't
complete daily ritual hand-clasps out through iron.
The only bars she'll ever know are locked downtown.
(It's a whiskey sort of year)
This fear, in tropical climes, does not keep,
Surreal love in times of cholera be damned,
No one watches her nightly collapse into the deep.
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