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Museums of Dust

In love, we are just an old curator
of a disheveled, inner museum,
fighting sun-beams of dust, in the hope
that the King might arrive just once.

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Silver Face

A moon submerged in a puddle;
we, broken hearted,
pine for that silvery face –

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Traffic

Fall in love, get sloshed,
walk into street poles, heed no zebra-lines,
let traffic screech, blare your headphones,
become a spectacle.

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Boats

The storm won’t be coming any soon.

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Language We Speak

the practical joke of divide,
that poses as language.

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Truth

Just listen,
remember how it hums.

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bad

Bad Poetry

When you see a poem all bruised and beat-up,
know that someone has died.

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