Fifty: Shadows

I’m walking with my eyes closed,
the shadow of the blind. I always
wish for blonde thoughts, narrowed
by some light I do not understand.

I’m talking with my hands, rows
of middle fingers waving at people
who do not understand. Noses
poking me in the back like blunt

knives. I bruise, naturally, peachily.
I follow the mind less travelled. So
I always fish for remote moments,
by some shadow I do not understand.


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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