it's dry, like the inside
and so very thirsty.
i watched the clicking numbers pass, coughing
flu and smoke, sullen Muse withdrawn.
words that sometimes flowed, now scrape
on the burdened underside, chipping graffiti from the 70s.
oh, it smells like piss
but the silence feels so warm:
i'll crouch here 'til i hear clarity.
there's nothing else to do.
3/28/09
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