All the plundered air of our choices weighs
Hardly
anything we floating upward on this
Breath
of culture a second thought not even
An
articulate concept really but yippee up we
Go
so high so finely delicate each iteration we
Express
in such remarkable literature so much so
That
even our high school English teacher weeps
Absently
from her hauled-down flag of a heart
And
it’s spring and it’s our senior year and we
Ask
little more than a happy squeal so oddly
Enormous
in the empty smoking court where
Nothing happens where we are both simply this
Unusually soft trace of fear and then this tiny
Indifferent tornado O the panic of dried tulips!
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