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Grift

Sucking water,

the venusian venetians are blind to what
hot tolls erupt. When I was younger

among
or agog
within

hemlines embraced, hemlines followed
the course of wind-swept pelts.

It’s along those days.

My skin was and isn’t
flustered by tidal grift.

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Posted by Lewis LaCook at 10:43 am | Postmodern Poetry | Permalink

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