by William Wigginton
Underhanded let’s carry on the fattening
and lie before the afternoon, before
the striped nudity gets its clothes on in the sky
and the sun is not seen for days,
let’s squash our fate upon us
like bricks and bugs, and discover ourselves
in the reversion to childhood dreamstates
one day, who will ever think to look
except ourselves, as children,
under the garden rock
where we are crawling, thinking, lying,
dreaming about being better men,
someday.
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