August Poem 5: They Honor His Tax Return

I do not tell tale of us. That they, the

Cry of clay bricks baked in the sun, reclaimed

Move. This I shifted. And so judges would

Three miles down, under the lightning split

Of Road three hundred and forty and eight.

The screen time of The Plantation, the bar,

And the name of the bar in Big Beaumont

Is designed to be one of my keeping

Grains of the shoulders. Debra usually

The wraith elm. Tattered rags flapping the breeze.

But since the learning, the part of chairs, she

Could move what breathed brown my light. The first strong

Lower part of her intimidating

Need. The black entrance masks of Purell Gods.

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