And in that time, newsprint was the preacher;
the history we would drape over our bent lovers
and down the street they would tumble
taking to wind like dizzy pigeons
until they all disappeared.
Headlines screaming you shot grins
and girls and your salvation was a shithole.
A flurry of quiet ripped calloused space and ten heard.
Ten pried through sidewalk cracks and emerged to find the all the time in the world.
Maybe, you know maybe, we got the grumpy end of the universe stick.
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