Tops

Give us the moon
in the privacy of solitude,
that all previous Buddha congeal
into our talks of winter wine
that like charcoal is blackish
in our guts. Around here steppers
step one happy foot right off
into the staring void contest.
Snow-angels, Charles, snowless!
No, Dane, there is an angel
got sick of Earth crowds under
you lying there right there there!

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~ by Jeremy on April 1, 2011.

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