out of the summery psyche, that kudzu of mind, the whole night rips her shirt
and left, he lingering, would run toward water.
after a pause in the slice of them he waited and a sound like night, but earlier, came through.
once there was a wilson or caplet or connor
and a free-for-all at the drunken county fair or last, the morning turned heel and run down on Sunday
not a soul worthy of saving in the mix or fun, the last shadow of something, slow on the corner
and gone.
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