these days i want to curl up and die are no poetic matter,
although once the major theme,
ideas
age and the springsweet voice
begins to cackle-whine
fungal words so
everything sounds the same.
---
these arms
that groped, stretched liver-spotted
lose their grip on the
poetry so
the mind just curls up and dies, these days, and, just
everything sounds the same.
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