I don’t know much about art, but
I know what I don’t like. Hat
packed, ready to go. As years embalm
decay, mist on wing, wits
on other. For sight is such
a short-lived fling, of bone and spewn
like tile atop the toil, who brings
Jersey-suited ploys, or what by
sought is summed, fazed onto, dub-
doused flight, charred rescinds. The suitor
blows a finer measure, capped as
pierces against alarm, which fraught
with force retards display.





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