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Replying to a comment on:
Small Town, January (Free verse) by zenhaircut
We stroll, in opaque light
All hairmass and unrequited dreams
Somber revelations, hushhush
Nicotine fiends, flush-faced monks.
'raw' and 'fresh' never seemed to be ambigous
till their offspring gathered softly
upon our downcast lashes.
Severed streetlights stroke this
lambquiet month,
and Terryville's alight with
chain-stringed sighs
and inked sentences
settle at white.
And dreamers, too, melt along the curb
smalltown charades,
the rattled moan of passby cars
sullen faces, damp.
Bones exhale under
filmthin skin, the maps
here we'll follow, or derail
still watching.
And silence broods above our brows,
sandfeet squirming,
tossing, turning
above this tranquil foregound.
The world, ajar,
and we look to our boots,
carefully charting
the steps.
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