I found this on the back of an envelope today...

back to flagstaff 310

A
nd maybe its a decent secret;
that the same sun does not rise every morning
and they are taking turns &
dying every night

holding cups of coffee in
their laps and tipping hats off
to all their favorite men inside the moon

looking up won't help us now
when we've got monkeys on our backs
looking up won't help us now
when there's no music
looking up won't help us now
when all our hearts have melted hard

look around you: nothing's still that still is breathing.

{the clouds make for a dusty racket in the evenings;
getting bare}

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