My world slams into the ridge of my left shoulder blade,
bodily harm, grit and greasy, this is the world outside who I am:.
When a sailor ties a knot,
it is meant to not be easily untied.
The raccoon in the city understands a lack of compassion,
the hand of the homeless–thorns, garbage, growing older.
They say there is one runner left and we should see him.
They say he has no legs, but his hands are strong.
So here we are unable to gain the task,
a grim weaver and a grim outlook–silence and golden
glare and still nothing can make this happen.
Nothing and yet something always does.
This is why the last car of the train is as important as the first
and why my babies will be born wearing tee shirts and jeans,
but still we went through tits and passion,
placenta and the shape…
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