pummeling my head, the
psychedelic patterns of ejected eggs
the sound of rivers I have never seen,
the ground tucked into a folding hole,
the halls of far gone New Hampshire,
a blue gash in the fading gray,
the bell yields, the oars give
a low transparent lick,
the street bulbs pulse
to a roaming beat,
the horns of light kiss,
horizons are shuffled by pale meat,
tubers cross with poison souls,
bronze water speaks,
afflicted families rise from dust,
the cost is a wailing call.
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