the bus circles in past dead tires and as though infected by their example stops
and you file round it all like prisoners of the diner
and a couple nestling together at the next table remind you
of a story broken in you
and in your heart the tornado's pirouette
an exercise given out by a god
too tired to assign more
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

shmoetry
 

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