Soon to be swept away,
the copper filings of conscience,
arranged with sweetness
on the bare edge of the page.
We bask in noon,
the heat wired to our brains.
Songs we learned in misspent youth
return us to that fractured place
where we made our names
from beige and nervous twine
and I note the lines upon my palms,
how deep they have become.
Listlessly, I scan the grooves
for a meaning I can stomach.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 