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* * *
After breaking its spine we notice
More clouds dressed up as brains
Writhing past towers all adrip
In grey snowlight. The skids
Remind us both of that Bruegel
We ought to know, but everyone
From a distance is going natural
Goth. Another Pernod for Mr.
Archer, please. Neon doomsters
Swear everything registered will
Be good, if not especially just.
Eventually the climate overpowers
Inaugural sentiment, breaking
All comers into lists of pursed O’s
Melting down over candy, rejecting
Unasked for snapshots of our
Tackish purple-lit carousel rides
By the Seine’s inviting trashbag
green currents. The anti-concussion
Rules can’t keep up with evolving
Bodies hurtling themselves across
Numbered chalk lines for us
Without guaranteed contracts. No
One truly broke fears that, exactly.