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Sunday, April 2, 2017

Not the Real Medication

When it was my turn, I turned
around to find the death
of a thousand memories pushed
through the fingertips
of my lover. As we settled into
a pale blue rowing motion,
the images I once based
my dreams on began to soar
from me like shingles in
a tornado. But I don't mean
a real tornado, I mean a brain
swirling in the mushy gunk
of goodbye. Our bright pillbox
a vehicle we drive through
Nebraska. Not the real Nebraska
but the shadow you let slip
around the kitchen door. Here,
um, yeah, we all get pinched in
the jaws of some
tumbling sea beast.

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