Good God!

Standard

Night offers up its tentacles
in recompense for the irregularity
of its functions. It goes from repose
to riposte in mostly seconds.
The profound weight of all things
considered starts small
and then starts swelling.
For we sell only a lifestyle

steeped in provincial attitudes,
the deluded gooey sense
of always being in the right.
Only we are capable
of keeping tight-lipped
about the slipshod sanctity
maneuvering like a creepy crawly
through the mud. A dud in the details –

this entails mucous.
Music. Spare change.

-r. miller

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