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For its own sake, the word wakens.
We’re staked to unstable ground.
The air surrounding this place
tastes of aluminum shavings
and a craving for excess.
I’ve had some success in sorting out
the unwanted aspects,
the flecks of ashen stupor,
the horror of knowing.
And yet the frustration
is ever growing, the frustration
we thought had been abandoned
to the deluge of gray water
coughed up from the hills.
A secret is spilled. A heartache
is spelled in a searing font.
Through the whir and the blear,
its meaning nevertheless cuts
clear through to the horizon line.
Meanwhile, the dusk still pines…

-r. miller

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