Imps In The Ganglion

My soul tends to reflect/like in fun house mirrors/nearby shooters batter blue ducks./My thumbprints’ whorl brings me here/it says the whole thing’s hocus pocus;/a matter of abracabdabra./Thousands of colors /each one of them sage/taken as treasure with war whoops./The rules all fail, instead:/it’s a 2 AM kryptonite click/ with cues and pointers of crystal./NYC windstorm display savage banners./I’m just a beast of burden./I lie awake in a feathery cradle

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