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Monday, April 16, 2018

not my 16th

I must have a mind of rain.
Each gray thought drops its tattoo
among the others, unneedlepointed, in-
exacting, and a thousand-thousand
ideas are puddled, mudoffered, storm-
drained. But I've a bucket--poetry--
I piss in too. To condense, dilute:
these are the same acts configured
differently. Time is a weather pattern
and my need to divide myself from
others by beauty and/or self-delusion
waxes and wanes. I have a mind
of rain. I have a heart of clay. My hands
are made of sweat, fashioning me into
useless friables I'd rather let ebb.

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