Prints of barren
trees and
hot air balloons hang
on the walls
in these holes
where we're stuck-- living
like pigs in bowls
of wilted petals,
wasting evenings writing
poems, feeding
on pills and jellied salmon
rubbing our nipples right down
to the bone--
we tug at furniture that is screwed
to the floor, we are bored, so
flipping through a few pages,
we cross and uncross our legs, yawn,
then we blink and we're gone.
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