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We grew up around a vague mile
connecting discourse to intercourse.
Coarsely ground. Foundations
in despairing fragments.

We tore up the ligaments
of our luster in between clusterfucks,
chucking reason for rhyme
and timing our moves just right.

‘Twas a firefight. Or flight.
It’s hard to miss the one
contained within the other,
hard to miss the mist ahead

congealing into a conglomerate
of multi-colored mistakes
and snaking its way forward.
A locked door is your reward

and it’s reward in only
a tenuous sense. The wet weather
drops its sword before you.
Time to grow some guts.

-r. miller

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