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Description

It’s like this:

one minute you're walking on air, but you
look down and it's a tightrope

swirling alphabet soup, because we
speak before we think, it's

a train of thought that’s lost its cargo, like
a raggedy doll missing a brown button eye, like
broken poetry in an empty piggy bank, like
canines and molars and corset-stiff smiles.

It's the thrilling sort of cold that
ec h o e s where the rain stings.

But I trust the clouds,
since they
don't care either way.