squidlike to squint-plantings
squalor flings its pall
these ruins grue roughshod
arrive plainly bane
was ever ill-columned
inch of temple gimp
& fail swilled in foldings
falutin' we'd recruit
only the cloud clownworks
declare beyond air
the word-winging order
waste in fathom traced
I used to think getting published in hardback was the logical culmination of writing: but now I know that's like expecting them to erect a bronze statue of you in the town square.
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