The poem asks for
no interruption
to finance its war

Upon broken
tree limbs
sawed trunks
at angles from
the night (road)

A bass line
marks the deluge

Frequency rips
up the forms

You make small orbits
of your days

Built around
paralysis, admonitions

A public space
for the most intimate
detours, enamored
of epigraphs, you know
full well its conceit

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