the sand stuck to the bottle's sugars
from the outside the use was that
the use to hold onto the wandering public
far from their words
what brought them out or alone opposite the door
the pattern of broken rains moved east
the manner of words
shaken from the bed or put to bed
long after the positions become inches of water
the posture of immaculate coherence
gone as if nothing happened to the thirst
the once again trace to recover
the way it didn't move but became lost
planted in new space like that
Sheila, I'm glad I can get in a poem all the things I ain't.
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