somebody is flinching by the mobile florist,
getting lynched with fatigue and
like a film about a sleepless childhood.
down an alley a few blocks away
a barrister snorting coke knits his
with rusty spokes
everything quivers for the girl by the water,
blinking icicles into her dead twins
waves are making blankets out of us,
and awnings build shelters
from the rain.
book x treats the leaflets like they
are alight and yearning,
and is under gender-surveillance
on the social dynamic of light-globe jokes.
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