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OH, MY BOOKISH BLOKES
Oh, my bookish blokes,
forgive me here
if I take chances, make
faulty choices
leave things in the text
that could not
be more questionable
but all of these are slight and shallow
do born
add to (or indeed subtract from)
the problems of the world
hardly anything here is marketable,
nothing serviceable
it is hardly
what you expected, not to speak
of deeply desired
it is not that
thing that
rewires your
synapses
paints your ceiling cerulean
adds a
sprinkling of stars
to the dead constellations of same
for here we are
at the station, at the airport
saying
our unspoken goodbyes
for the moment, for forever
you show me your ticket
I almost stoop
so low as
to ask for loose change.