I am moving backwards,
backwards as against time,
looking for the face I cherish,
hoping to hear the cherished word.
Her travesty of anthill sidewalks
spilling the erupted grain
laser framed kiosks of the new abandon
pulsating airports where the
credit's soft in alcohol
jagged cliffs of green racing to the river
a deck of alien teeth
spread across these liquid ships
a fan of dying echoes
a propeller's wig.
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