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Sep 2011
The modern robots are all dead --
the metal ones rusted,
the human ones bled.


For courtesy's sake, we'll call it square --
A voicemail's ghost
in a tentative field.


Manner's are infants' wails hung out to dry --
a starving microphone
with tubes pinched shut.


A scared off circuit in surgical riptides --
Our favorite pastime
alive on the screen.
Kara Rose Trojan
Written by
Kara Rose Trojan  Chicago
(Chicago)   
2.8k
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