The Prettiest Prose

I can’t complain. Hercules
Was metaphysic. The heart
Of an angel is isosceles. But
Seriously. I’m doing alright.

The day shrunk into the
City edges. You know what
I mean. For a second it is
The deep sea. What pinks.
What finery.

The graffiti isn’t in a hurry
To go. The house
Is old anyway. And the lawn
Thank goodness is dandelion
Messy.

Just the blue and the purple-blue shapes that spin and collect the stuff the pushes down on time.

A rake of leaves
Without a handle
Without a lawn

The picture you tore and sold as a souvenir

Of a hallow moon

Arms pining for the old gods

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