Syracuse

Cotillions of empty, odd pairings of local wines

And a general absence of conversation.

Printed handbills announce silent auctions—

Half lives burn down in clay, sweetie,

 

Just how it is; rebarbative Barbies

For sale in a garage; children grown

They didn’t take them; some woke,

Left home; a crow with one wing

 

Ambles, looking pissed,

Gets another day; winter oft

Sharpens teeth, yes,

Those are infant coffins.

 

 

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