I love to wash the car
pleasure mixed with trepidation
paint will chip dings happen
I could almost do it twice
my affection for everything unyielding
a triumph I must repeat
the open maw of
a butterfly’s wings
poetry is the art of place
I’m always trying to fool myself
the wind came up
and slammed the door
pleasure mixed with trepidation
paint will chip dings happen
I could almost do it twice
my affection for everything unyielding
a triumph I must repeat
the open maw of
a butterfly’s wings
poetry is the art of place
I’m always trying to fool myself
the wind came up
and slammed the door
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