Clipperships and Woodchips
Away the frantic Montana night,
our heaving tectonic sandpaper nation,
Happenstance ushers us into a bus-depot,
you in deep gasho to American Standard,
implausable urges magnetize my eyes towards your
plasticine lips agape to the bubbling.
Argue our lives for well-creased joints,
deep wagon tracks that gravity binds we to(o).
Oaxaca is calling us from this mundane witching hour,
are we to ever arrive there?
Oh my valise your sketches are competing with
drawn swords and dashed line emotions
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