just about

at the room
at the station
we would live
in long rests
we would dive
we would thrive
we would chew through regrets

cops making an alarm
a motor perfectly springing
and when a later morning came
our socks we would be ringing

through corridors to humidors
where not a word is spoken
cigars on our minds
on the floor the broken

shortly practiced
sainted stay
faintly figured
lifted away

to every chrome gatehouse
in front of sharper knives
dressed in a row of simple candles
thrown through the light of wives

and we’ll cheer, won’t we cheer
won’t we bury Guinevere
in a nightgown in a dumpster
with a tall hand standing near

another piece struck pout
another peace stuck shouted
peeved poised plucked noise
sure the boys say we was routed

in response
and damned
if we were fated
in repose
this to say
and slammed
as we are grated

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