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Poems

Our Future as Unromantic Tramping

Communication sent between colors

has no meaning. Meanwhile, you yearn

for purpose amidst plaster safe-havens.

The children fall asleep in city streets

and dream green and brown covered

in red and blue, anxious for the day

that all they have to worry for is starvation.

Which will be the first for your sepulcher?

Exposure or drugs or any other unclean

invader of your sterility? And yet you crave

the sick man sitting only two amputated feet

away, smiling around others also in pain,

knowing running in the light is more tedious

than nothingness. Yearning for that instant

of beautiful survival.