Political bones,
Do you love me? Probably...
How can I know this?
The chips are down.
Night
keeps your physical preaching
sharpened. Broken bones
on the shelf - they shine,
polished by speeches we gave
when we raised that flag
to lower it again
to half staff.
You wear your hair
long and flowing down.
I could be empty
stations on your latest route
around the playground.
January 11, 2014 4:30 AM
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The chicken crossed the road. That's poultry in motion.