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 anticipating the disgrace,
discouraged from opening that long mouth,
watched the leaves change.
In another place: laudatory balloons,
small crisp cakes.
The taste of purpose.
And these years later I continue.
This birthday drags alongside it another fall.
The situation condenses
in the clutch of my gut. Prospective
wanes in the inner room. They give me juice
to rouse my blood sugar up.
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