in this tub that embodies

                               your mind at the brim

                               of second thoughts

                               grows, word by word,

                               the loop of prunings "I"

                               can be spun from each &

                               every weanling's happy

                               attic we get drunk in

sundown: burlesque girls lick their wrists

dry on a terrace, Paris ahead, bleeding.

 

 

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