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I actually think this one is pretty bad
Folder:
Bad poetry two waiting plates
the space between the dry dirt is like
tiny cracks in house window spreading randomly until they're out of room
everyone in this city is waiting to fall
from some great height, to become walled in and change
into some other form. I myself walk today
in the evening of affordable lace and
eyeliner trailing into shallow u's
if you can see them yet
better closed,
or open fists around warm plates
on a counter
waiting for you.
