days that end in why
the demons of a poison pen
fight to get out what once was in,
right out outright wrongs wherein
trash cans hide unwritten sin.
well
yesterday, took on to
a stoplight gaze front locked rear view
at a woman's look
down at a man's
transfer of from mouth to hand
the Manhattan that today I knew
still sitting on
the rocks.
its problem found no answer few.
its proportion mouths; one to two.
its latter sort no fancied feud.
its former stems
from cherry.
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