Most of my readers are robots
or spam boozers or clandestine monkeys insane / undignified / as calcified
as brother barnacles.
The romance between the caldera & the camera crew.
The lame bus babies & the busboys
look incandescent -- puzzling, she says to herself,
tending to a sprig of burning sage -- who are you? --
These are the
boasted-out posers on the edge of limbs, cancerous mellifluous munchers
of popcorn & pizza luncheons. Like tunics draped over the sedges of women
around which they hiked together, in the drab cold, (planted here,
a hedgerow) these men are the moonshine
& their children are monsoons.
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