“Over-thinking,” the little boy says,
queer as ever in
a plaid paper costume.
“I embrace rhythms,” whimpers a dancer dying,
sadly in her graceless world -
contorting to listless eyes.
“Too many lonesome men to count,” scribbles the author,
tumbling over his preoccupations in a world of toppled faith.
“I’m reaching for you,” the smooth sailor surrenders.
Oh, she’s nowhere I promise you,
hidden in pieces of her life that don’t fit.
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