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Sickroom; Guidelines by Michael Igoe


A matter of fact thrill

likely bends in an arc

A thrill sends signals

in different

directions. I will bring you

a bottle of water,

a palm pressed,

to your forehead. This town is the source

of compressured breeze it introduces petty glory.

I never seemed able,

to move both hands,

more than in circles. Completely certain,,

why I only find you

as the darkest syrup


No one has the willing tread, on a street paved with alibis.

A grace of reluctance

that's never realized

but a past reflection

of the chains traces. Orange buildings clustered,

in masses in glass and steel. Constant noise sustained,

loud as a bolt of thunder.

Where I grew gaunt,

cheekbones broken,

the hairline silvered.

Kowtow at baseline,

claiming to perform

defiant at end of day.

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