you’re a bushel of peaches

     and I’m the pits.

     am I the hole in the universe

     into which god spits?

sure feels like a vacuum in here,

this must be where the void sits.

the cushions are devouring me,

I’m existing in starts and fits.

     there’s supposed to be a season for everything,

     so why this protracted winter night?

     nothing escapes this eventless horizon

     not even what’s dubbed wrong and right.       

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