It's a summer of discomfiture, of comfortable furniture, of cardboard-windowed ACed spare rooms. A handful of tarnished tokens of a particularly unspectacular year of early middle age.
A mercury bulb, a novena, daisy chains & lazy railroad workers.
Grief peels off like sheets & we measure our days in day-glo gelatin, & the lakes like lilac cubes are everywhere, JA. Your prospect of flowers is my self-correcting tar pit.
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