i can hear the ford bank and slip
a bag for churches to carry the cash in

keep thin lights blink/blinking
a fit cut of padlock, an eye divorced

of early. these words are not my friends
my friends are not my friends

or they are pretending and so again
i’m folding my lonely napkin

and slipping along the front of a week.
but i am not even myself

a granary filled with fat mice
all the crumbs wiped up

in another minute.


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