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The turn around

the coat of disorder
perched on a charcoal banister
of nothingness,
deep as jet black
squanders a lepers pray.
We tangle the rusty night,
striking conversation with
the night owl:
heads turned we beseech the lock keeper
and launch a rowing boat
to the tidal rivers,
and drown as deep as
forgiveness merits.

16 Sep 13

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