Shanks for the Memories

We don’t have to be anywhere. Counting the ways to delineate the chorus and its grievances. Four A.M. mumble-mouthed on the porch steps, Milwaukee’s dirty water funneled into our tidologies. I feel something absolute in this moment, but do I pin it to your presence anymore? The fickle lining I give too much mercy. We look out to the narrow highway. Sphinx moths beating their flight against the winds of tornado watch aftermath, wing patterns like the auburn while autumn conceives itself, or the eternity of things buried and all of what comes before then unfurling at my tongue’s...

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