strands of perspective melt around the sunrise and we
wake like reporters, journalists of
war, riders of the bad weather thinking
it's a good day to
dice rolling cross the street in manhattan when
i retrace my steps to the the daily duress and i
humm to myself appearing cheerful but
it's surgical distraction from the bad
songs fucking with
you share victories
minutes outside the cafe
curls of smoke punctuating what amounts to escape
returning to the cyclical cache
no drama but the ones that
separating molecules of time in a rented hole
bartering curious misery
envies cascade like clumsy chess moves and
pondering the patterns why not just
walking with chaos she's got
tight jeans serene voice wavers when
it's haunting your dreams
over too quick rocking the visine
an obvious scene but you
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