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ode to winter

I stop the gaps between the silences and the murmurs of another room – a baritone

talks to himself or a sleeping partner stirred between the sheets. Outside, the crystal street tree-

lined birds discuss the seasons So long to spring.


Since I started to think this, a man with nothing else to do is out with his chainsaw and the whole                                                                                                                                               fucking thing’s gone.


Let me just say this:

Fuck suburbia. Fuck America’s Cup. And fuck odes to winter.

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