the past cold-calls
like its got a hotline
i am bluetooth synced
with yesterdays mire
it
whispers
passive aggressive
breaths
of
happenstance and blame
i unplug
i look forward
a whole twelve feet
to supper
and the wind-down warmth
inside our walls
~
autumn burns down
your heart locker
and everything gets out
and everything dances an old dance
in the low swung
sepia
sunlight
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