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Weary. Yes, I must admit, sun or rain, weary

wary worry yes I am. Fascists and colitis

came to drag me, each with a whip.

The world, rotating in its oven

turned itself, braised in earth juice. Peppers,

rains of gravy seas and fish rotted on the beach

I cannot see. Removed I dwell on high.

Weary. Where did ocean go to, I mean the clean

beach we ran when we were kids, the sand

stretched in patterns of the wind.

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