still no ketchup, but some more words. have to make the napowrimo work for and against me...then it'll be back to occasional and photo-based meanderings...
keep a shitty tree
to hang your children
from
like leaves
but not let them
leave the grounds
keep a city clean
beneath four thousand
mounds of dirt
the burning asters
a form of situating distance
and what rail call
will come through that mountain
chugging and smoke
the last of the stalked grain
most hope for feeling
and get practically nothing
in return--the bump on the lip,
a fast switching spotlight that curtains
bodyparts, loose change in a jar--cattle
prodded further into the field
what setting beyond place
mats and mats to wipe your feet
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