the sky's a grey glare
identical with itself and unexplaining
and
well
i'm
feeling
straight as the flat noon sun/a factory die
and dry as forgotten august roadside hay
so
i'm
talking/walking/working
like a man/beautiful lace and slinky cups
and those miniature toy bows must be tied by elves daughters
fill my mind
and
how/two years ago
i burnt myself in effigy
one exploding accelerating Sarajevo
bonfire night
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