Haze horns in with ire for summer. Even bad dreams spill through into morning: waxy cylinders of belted sunlight. We Never Close. A western anthem. In my mother's mouth are many scansions, but earthliness has something wanting in spite of its honey. When I was a bud I hustled sandbags for a quarter. I wore the bell. I sent or sat among daisies. Translate the dollar. Follow that pen. Fall for piffle, yet. I miss the town that born me.

 

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