Sometimes
by Laurie MacDiarmid
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the mill belches
a marsh breath
like burning onions
over the falling leaves
as red branches
whisper and sigh
and rub against each other
with invisible sparks
like teenage skin
meeting teenage skin
in the backseats of a thousand
rusting cars
while underneath
ants march out
their machinist days
hustling mouthfuls of dirt
into all our graves
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