my face--it itches with the lack of itself--
the less protruding nose--than yours--just sits flat
like a newborn's, the nostrils barely opening
as I let the blue soroundings of this world in
slowly sinking into the nothing inside
the black empty is shooting up green
it's now trees and thoughts and sadness sinking
in sod--that's dying--get your money back--
all the grass lain, your dirt-stained knees,
your hoe, your spade, your dark horse.
You've been trampled--the slamming of the
typewriter hammer, --it bangs-- out nothing
it's shooting out black--obscene,
Get your money back.
Tickle your toes. . .
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