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Trips over flowers

Flowing into this shape
and past huddled rubble

I’m hunched over this black
alphabet folding my maps
into electric architecture
exquisite with centuries

smelling of centuries

It should be citrus
in the morning milk
at night but in this shape

flowers

trip over themselves trying
to root

And I’m trying to pry the moon from
the buildings that have washed down

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Posted by Lewis LaCook at 11:42 pm | Postmodern Poetry | Permalink

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