Thoughts on this poem are mixed.

Bar Napkin, Location Unknown.

still pushing that merry-go-round,
headspin chaos, birth to death inevitability sped up by
cigarette smoke and coffee.

what the water makes rocks into, our bones are
that cliff
fragmenting vermilion in the afterlight

seagulls make food from trash,
we adhere to the opposite philosophy (or anyway, our
bodies…)

we are the dimly lit bar
dark corner miracle slowly
winding our way

to the end.

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