piece

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What of those fond of promenades
on beaches, sidewalks, vacant arcades?
Catechize their voids. The steps fill them up.
Should there be a holdup?
They crinkle and rot, frantic for the plot.
So there goes the calves, there –
Erratic, fitful, sore
Anarchic imprints on the sober sand
Effaced, stubbornly reappeared.
Our fleshy voids intact.

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