Cars churn like washing machines in the distance,
Fifteen minutes before new work, scars like bruises on my
Temples like orchards being overworked in a furnace;
And the sky going ever upward like drapes in a cathedral,
Like plumes of a forest fire, or the truancy of angels smoking
Underneath all those tall swings the authorities have since
Dug up
To make the world a safer place, just so innocent children couldn’t
Get high enough to look into your eyes.
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