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We don’t have to be anywhere.

Counting the ways to delineate
the chorus and its grievances.

Four A.M. mumble-mouthed
on the porch steps,
Milwaukee’s dirty water
funneled into our tidologies.

I feel something absolute
in this moment, but do I
pin it to your presence anymore?
The fickle lining I give too much mercy.

We look out to the narrow highway.
Sphinx moths beating their flight
against the winds of tornado watch aftermath,

wing patterns like the auburn while autumn
conceives itself, or the eternity of things buried

and all of what comes before then
unfurling at my tongue’s underside,

like your whispers,
like cotton-mouth while
mud puddles reflect CVS light glare.

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