late in this life
in the night that surrounds me,
I check my email
and find you speaking
in italicized fonts,
asking me what time it is
and when does
life begin, after the sheets slide to the floor
or is after the
leave blowers heave wind and fumes
to no good purpose?
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The Atlantic a month ago ran a pig-headed bit of snark-slamming prog rock as "The Whitest Music Ever, "a catchy bit of clickbait...
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