Tables

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She resembles a boredom.
Dropped from the high heavens
to the plump earth,
spurting all over the grump.
She smiles through another’s teeth.
Fatal wreath. Bequeathed stumps.
In pumps, she wonders.
But it isn’t quite the same
as facing critical conjecture.
My the… injection
and… the… of… shifting blips.
Creases in flux. This is
whatever the lummox wanted,
a plate of gray eggs
and canned laughter.
After afternoon’s spooned
from the creepy weather, she’ll sever.
Shit basted. Stillness pasted on her.
She you demanded enough
process leeches.
Beseech her hair.
And grieve her eyes.

-r. miller

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