Saturday, June 10, 2017

№ 316. Blurry-ed Lines

Yet how to kill
a ghost? The fog
of our outdoor talk—

we breathe,
we grieve, we drink
our tidy drinks. I think

now winter will out—
the snow bless
& kiss

this cursed earth.
Or is it cussed? I don’t
yet know.

Money Road

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