The poetry of earth is dead. We're breeding
gazelles on foot, their Nike swooshes
flooding lungs with whale songs (past tense
July 15: I chew my nails to quicks
The girl who waved me through the four-way—
We need to talk. It seems I hate you-—
let's journey to the Earth's hollow center.
There's corn in everything. The hens are pecking
but who really notices? If the dog
made a list of things I need: some fruit,
another taste Now fido's drunk and barking Frost:
Please step out of the car sir, write a straight line
while rhyming sir middle-aged and starts to
panic. It’s something I consider over dinner
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