you have flies on your insides
and pudding in your ears
nothing seems to get all the way through
before it's stopped by cellophane
the maple tree in your backyard
tells secrets to the crowds
of how you sunk into the madness
withought so much as a fight
the poetry out of my mouth
knew you, discreetly, once
until one day you said "it's over"
and the tape recorder stopped















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