Pass unseen through a godforsaken floodplain,
city of treachery, siege and publishers.
No backbone here at all, nothing to fight,
or with. All sunken in unmerciful decay.
Every girl who ever rode a pony
prostrate in the stables. The one thing
that would save us, that would clatter
through the galaxies, a chariot perhaps, evaporates.
Frost rime blackened on the ponds is left.
The ducks and swans have lice enough
for all of us. The publicists eat Spam;
manners holds the rest of it together.
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