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Standard

When the upper air smells weak,
when speech flickers
and is no longer sufficient,
it’s time to fold up fallibility
and move onward to the next city.
I plucked your name from a cloud.
Something didn’t seem right
or at the very least seem fair,
but I honored my obligations
to the letter.
Now I can’t call myself
a better person necessarily.
A preferable one, sure.
It’s a matter of balancing.
My favorite sweater is worn
in the elbows, and so is my mind.
Muscle in, why don’t you,
and be my weary bride?

-r. miller

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