weekendoff
everything is bad luck in the poverty of times
a wake’s indecision is this morning’s thin gruel
how can i be someone if i don’t have the medals
to wear down the front of a mirror’s inversion
of time when ‘what‘ was the question oft asked
along the length of a rail sleepers’ improper precision
to pace an early walk on a hungover sunday from
saturday’s indecision revised and rerturned
over and over in a mind that slow minded
not to mind my redress of the poverty of times
for afoot in the long grass is the night’s lately moon
and another weekend is over too soon
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