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Sep 2017
it’s a kiss of
blowsy fate:

the yellow leaves
float and
hold the
moment of
brown-blue
crunch
under new
tennies—
cool

and the kiss
of an old
mattress flipped,

a pumpkin vine
twisted,

a musty basement
coated in
lavender mist—

the breadth
of nascence in
my mouth:
Ginger

I think was
her name

and the ash
of my cigarette
smokes
the blown
sidewalk.
King Panda
Written by
King Panda  32/Denver, CO
(32/Denver, CO)   
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