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Maybe it is tart,
either way, a fond place to start

making havoc.
I snap my fingers

to the / beat. In sheets,
we fall behind, again–

to pretend we’re in love?
I doubt it.

I doubt everything.
The structures press me thin,

to enjoy the scenery?
That’s bullshit.

My dreams are only fragments
of an imagination askew– especially nightmares.