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Poem: Gone 

February flakes its tarry roof
in a burning blizzard of shingle
ash, singed pages, and
melted tools for calculating
some infinite amount that cannot
be made to cover the cost of living.

This is what life becomes:
business. The active rush from
rise, like a steep pitched attic
touching the lawless sky
to fall as smoke-sallow leaves
to the ground, where everything
comes to lie.

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