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June 28, 2012

you strain to forget, to fish out prickly thorns swooshing in the gray soup
din of the boiling crescendo punctures a pregnant night
hours pass, traffic below thinning like a stream blocked from glacial melt, coolly placid
and the glances you stole, the flickering sight of sleep slips back into ink blackness, impenetrably viscous
onward he waltzes

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