A man encased in wood
yells intermittently at the transient crowd
in colloquial chestnuts.
The path is bathed in a teenage downpour on wheels.
The surface is dry
and the windows are dazzling - mini universe.
Eyes flicker as the book stares back with the pretension of a
transfixed horse
constructed from the shoulders of mosquitoes.
I draw on my senses and wonder if awkwardness existed before mammals.
6 o'clock has the feel of tension wrapped in bacon.
These roads are drowsy.
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