at the point where i don't feel my jaw moving
down the road when i can't see the cars coming
around the bend, there are swirly things
distant, cheerful, fiery girls
and wonderful boys with autumn eyes
there are recurring themes and neatly tied strings.
the popping in my head has stopped, but
when i move my neck creaks like a nineteenth-century
staircase, just barely redone.
i might be slippery, but i'm really quite warm.
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