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Road Trip Mornings
July 8, 2023
twirling like a liquid silver pencil
through the country roads I am falling
through the country roads’ windmill shadows
I am falling once again
and I am twirling like petals of smoke and spring
and winter birds made me the gold and fire
and leaving me to spin around my empty ecstasy
her pain her endless eyes and wrists
and her ever moving running river self
her dolphin gray pencil self her dancing pencil
on those road trip mornings alive like the night
when you get too tired to write.
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