You can form this with your fingers.
Lingering, the horizontal line
leading from truth to trope
vomits wax happiness.
Newer taxes and newer shades of green.
You’ve seen the unlikely alliance
between the city and sleep;
it’s only grown deeper since you’ve aged.
Suddenly you see the rage
filtering through the screen door,
coming to wrench you
from your dream.

-r. miller

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