looking up


the elementary particles of
our days are mushing’ly flowing
in the parallel
between tangent wooden poles;
those mute milestones
lonesomely-teethedly sticking out
from the rotting gums
of our mundane surface

branches-wings flapping
reaching up
tearing into pillow-feather’d pieces
of sick grey clouds

helplessly finger’ly grasping
the cracked-dry surface
same mundane surface
-lift off

stiffed swine-necks
don’t let us
to look up
whats left?
-to trample on the dust of the earth


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