More of a Ghost than My Ghost. Here I Am.Born feet first,
soft-skulled and blind. How lucky Spring is to have Winter, an ugly brother to be judged against. How much of my body is in transition, soon to be garbage, has become garbage. Look, my drawers are lined with empty pill bottles. Someone has to feed the pharmacists. They have kids. I want my garbage to tumble in the ditch, burn up, nest seagulls on a barge. I am a dove made of rust, a history of rain as you look at me. I write a love note to my garbage. I mean it.
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