The middle of each worry
hung on the coat hook
of New Amsterdam
fondling the pearls on the neck of the Saint
grinning admit the twists and turns
of burying bodies
the strange stench of War
is all I smell
after reading the book
on Bruegel
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Soaking up the rain and whipping spit of the waves, as he stood next to the ocean of my memory, a fire hydrant in a red windbreaker, glaring...
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"Well...that was dramatic." I didn't know what he meant until I saw the ink spilled everywhere and the moths in her hair like ...