attempt to marinate
in the depths of forgetfulness,
I have — for a monotonous
month of dry-eyed cut-
throat carousel humping,
grasping at banana green buds
that could only be seen
with a plastic microscope,
wading through the
garbled sounds of gardening—
clearly forgotten that
this is the night,
where my only saving grace
is that my silhouette
cannot be traced.
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