I’m taking wood filler crayons to my farmer tans
now I love
writing claustrophobic letters
on the backs of envelopes
that seal some hint of okay
on this well-breathed evening
I can still catch myself
cursing the school bus drivers
reckless childless
Childish we wish we were
pale and red like
the last day of death
bleating because the lights
are immensely
what is
should be
forget about the phantom
feeling and nothing
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