making books faster
than we burn them.
and we make trash and
we make noises.
right now i'm making a list
of all the pleasant poets
i could lock insides with
to make our attentions
a ductile cash crop.
books of hours. equivalency.
raw gallons of a matter
that we could stretch thin.
uncoiled, it can span
into and out of the trench
over 900 times.
you could fill a gutter
with what i don't know
about being outside of my mind.
you could pour my mind
down a drain
and verily it would clog.
it takes a lot of disappointment
to drag a laughing through
the dead wetlands of sinking horse despair
and i've done it
with frozen white grapes
heaped on my back.
i attract a damning heat.
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