Poem -
there are smug villains in my oatmeal
there are smug villains in my oatmeal-Ā
and ravenous enclaves of my useless toys.
i have Islands to speak too.
but not a one to call Land.
just a clump of implausible retreats
in a war on my perfect
vacation.
a hole in a fork
like a howl
in a mirror.
always.
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