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i am the someone worth                                                                   


             into short creeks:

             petals unpicked

             at night,



             breaded. axes are


             mayflowers out of the water. petunias

are ghost ships: they are triremes out of war.


and in the breath of light i

pour coins like shoveled sand and take

         rain in


of good-day sunshine. with me you will find

peace candles

           and vapor scraps

           in a

           heavy night, marsh-stinking and

monkey gray.


                         and now at bedtime, these fan blades are

astral soups cantankerous and deceitful as jellied wind.


once a convenient sun becomes familiar,

a mind that is

none of mine is coughing up opiates, strategizing

enough not to imagine. 

 Livio Farallo

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