Lightning interests
the sleeker populace
of Green Fork
Junction. The sort of node
bereft of kinglier fish,
organized by fiduciary
interest elsewhere. interest elsewhere.
Even loosely translated
we’re hard to adapt, pockets
of Archimedean style. Stains
on the cuffs we’ll never
afford to clean. Idiot glow,
rose-stupid sky, where waters
run naked as a drunken schoolboy
in time with the homesick
blink,
its eye. it’s I.
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