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Dandelions over the treeless hilltop
beats from the boombox, baseball cards
in the cardboard, swing set calling,
segmented lives in the partitioned
madness, rented cartoon panels,
downstairs from the hill where iguanas
are not playing, igloos do not mirage
from the steamy ground, for no winter cradles
to long you back again, the red-faced
men are dead you are not wanted
in their unpainted kitchens or the blouses of
the ones they kiss good night in bad weather.