it was a suicide day,
tin fish hooks crushed
in about the edges.
I could hear blue
or slate gray.
someone bit a hand off,
(it could have been their own).
in the midst of
medical curiosity,
the living was left nothing.
it rained
and never stopped.
a pen disappeared,
I screamed for days,
hours,
minutes,
seconds.
nothing but,
“blue largo . . . ”
code words
for crumbing rocks.
I keep saying, “blue largo.”
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