Weary. Yes, I must admit, sun or rain, weary
wary worry yes I am. Fascists and colitis
come to drag me, each with a whip.
The world rotates in its oven
braised in earth juice: peppers,
rains of gravy, seas, fish rotted on the beach
I never see. Removed I dwell on high.
Weary. Where is the ocean, I mean the clean
beach we ran when we were kids, the sand
stretched in patterns of the wind.
2010 - 2019
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