Eclipse

Cold grass the kissing session infirmities;

the dog’s drug-induced thirst. Moon struck

yogurt halo. Sour puss. “L St. Laundry.

“Nosotros Repasamas La Ropa Gratis.”

Shadow of my inhaler darkens the last

paragraph of a column. Wait for death

(own it) someday. And occasionally hate

myself. Love waxes wanes always returns.

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