3.18.19

Standard

Grasping for the cluster
of fevered nerves,
never have I been so beautiful.
Corrupt youthfulness
with a worldly grin and devotion.
My intonation seems off.
Not that I’m better for it,
but that I’m circumscribed.
At least these scribbles
somehow assume a meaning
when pressed. Dressed in fire,
perspiring still. But
this is my own illness, which
is more than some can say.

-r. miller

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