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This here is the holiest of shits –

true, we broke down during
the reign of cannons,
explosions mounting the air
like jaguars in heat, and joy
was beaten out of me
with a thick switch.
The river’s twitching head
is a cathedral to our anxiety,
a cracked glass door,
a whisper growing
out of silence.
Rhyme this with violence.
Rhyme this with orange rinds.
Meanwhile, time is careening
like a moth to flame –

-r. miller

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