The Worst Sort

In decline, morning speaks
through the sides of its mouth.
The fragrance of decay
lingering on its breath.
How interesting.

We’re refreshed until we’re not.
Ineptly waltzing backward
to the rhythm of reaction.
No traction, smooth­-souled

wanderers on a trackless glassy plain.
Underappreciative apparitions,
the worst sort of acquaintances.

-r. miller

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