to be sure, he was flakier
than a buttered biscuit,
though twice as toothsome
sweeter than the fragrance
trumpeting from the honeysuckle,
yellow and white, banking the
highway, the pits in the
road only an occasional
inconvenience
shanks mare, for miles, in
the sun, the shimmer over
black tar, and she melts, melts,
away to a puddle
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