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This morning ain't come easy,
sits in my throat like tar-balls
rolled up on the beach 'tween two stones.
Dream bones crack and simmer and
glutinous marrow gets spooned up.
Small cities sink beside straight, gleamy ditches
where reivers grin while taking all I own.
I begI don't fight back. Instead,
eyes shut I turn the pillow over; dream
the screee of green woods, the vacant overhead.
Above this shroud, daylight
and redemption fill the fluery room.
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