Birch logs lean against a bearing
wall unattached
to any story I can see. I live local
except when my fears go

express. I would roll my eyes at the one train
town except I would do it
all wrong. The rolling. Never could
raise one brow unhitched

from its mate. That tongue curling trick
goes unnoticed—a genetic disposition
toward depression and intensity
without regard for subject

or consequences. No one left
to blame—just a single obsidian
countenance to spill
onto this blanched nature.

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