wasn’t anything in particular
took the cyclone from your sails
the welter wheel and the tin can rains
the nights we fought the rats off
desire for the unyielding storm
they regard this as a second coming
but hard stones betrothed to needles
find forever shadowed on the forest floor
cut in cross sections locked in ankle bracelets
deep in empty pockets with the poor
truth in opposition even in crosshairs still
fuses and refuses to lick the boot
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