Second Story

It was a cone shape/ wrapped up in repose. /I can see it clearly,/I see it now,/ it shifts to a red roof /from another red roof./I feel splinters underfoot/ they bring on something real./A stitch in the fabric,/of the same color,/I recall the same skein./They can’t do more./Someone passed around a bottle, we drank down blue beer./We think about money in quantity/as printed by men- at- arms./Say it once more; /they can’t do more./ And when it’s said twice, they’ll do it;/we were always sure they would. /They had been there before/but tired of of the rocket glare.

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