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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.

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