It is to this we clamor,
a nuance lifted above sails,
the pristine wind curtailing flows.
So what it is is what I knows,
a record of the blows I’d taken.
Shaken milk/perpetual stream.
Dreams we have/are.
Had the air soured or had we cringed?
To put an end to the drinking binge,
you championed the hurt we swallowed.
Diving netherward/foreswearing
allegiance to the ropes.
Here I gag on the myriad hopes of a generation.
Here I nervously reserve my spoiling brain.
A taste of rain for mourning.
Sputter we this fragment of a song.
Long run vex. We bound in text,
coming up for agony/sighing at random
and fixed in splintered seeing.

-r. miller

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