Poetry — what an objectively 
disagreed upon reality, filled to overflow 

with such things like fringe combs 

and metallic tea jugs. Best now 
to bring it to a boil, to set on 

the balcony railing and let seep 

into sun tea. The poet relines
on a laced blue towel 

tucking her bare knees tight up underneath her

and chewing on the breeze that lifts
the staleness and calls for a head count.

It’s the notorious age of the golden dog 

when all can be lost on a freshly 
mowed lawn and a barrel-full 

won’t get you anywhere anymore. 

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