Incomprehensible regurgitations . . . overtake many of those
who seek solace in the balladeer's tongue . . .
conjuring the self . . .
while outside snow speaks makeshift lyrics . . .
We are released early for good behavior
to rouse the ire of the nasty weather . . .
pocketing vials of Teflon for the folks back home . . .
The streets clown us . . .
There will be no escaping the night . . .
especially now with your diary veering into unconsciousness . . .
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| Wendy Bevan |