One Mouth, No Ear

In a city
where all the words
fall to the ground
to knead themselves
into ashes
& sun baked motor oil
while gliding,
.        floating
& careening
through the creeks,
streams, fields, rivers
& waterfalls
in the baptism of fresh rain,
that cleanses our gutters and sewers
giving those words the opportunity
to be born once again
into the mouths of prop guns
which haven’t the intent
nor velocity
with which to suggest

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