RIND
How I set my arm upon you
and it ripens
like the slow yellow smoke of pollution choking under its’ own weight.
How I’m still left with what I’m hiding;
a dirty-curbed snow angel,
a mismatched address, a botched serum, an escape.
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CALL ME ISHMAEL You know why? Because I said so. If I live long enough to make it to an airport without losing any oxygen, if I use my mo...
