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It’s as easy as falling off a donkey
as clear
as crayon
on a Big Chief tablet.

It hurts, it doesn’t hurt.
It hurts,
it doesn’t.
It exults.
It despairs.

Without an obsession,
where can it go?

It’s as thick as the smoke off dry ice,
sublimes as it is wet
sweats like the inside of plastic wrap.
It clings even tighter.
It is a thousand foxtail seeds
in a pair of wool socks.

Does it feel like Christmas?

Sometimes like Halloween.
It takes its time like a grandmother
peering over a steering wheel.
It is as peaceful
as being eaten alive
under a moonlight serenade.

It hurts,
doesn’t hurt.
It exults.
It despairs.


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