Tuesday 114: Poem
Casket of blankets
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in the glass. A comet
flare, bouquet of beggars.
Jackie’s unseen, opens
like a cat opens
the toilet door.
Penny sips, heavy-eyed
in her hour of pain, photoshops
this curve, breathes it into me.
Their aspects linger,
pass.
Dust yourself off, waste-o.
Get dry
as a day-long drive.
Get wet
as the colors of every
water.
The low-frequency guys,
I don’t miss,
but I could go for seeing
you, gas guzzler,
my favorite icterid,
adrift.