Few Things Renew

My sweet, longsuffering little poem:
panic is no road.
Yesterday bought us
the whole thing over again.
All can count, and I am haunted by
the sum of its corpse.
Tomorrow I’ll find something new
to run our fingers over.

The country is getting by on barb and thorn.
The whole premise repugnant.
When they pray, God cause
the hundredth time your poet
is going to value that which
looks stupid and hilarious.

Ugh, remember how edgy I felt,
having allonelength hair,
a Crayola box of
middleschool journals?
I didn’t yet hurt, luckily.
Will I love this girl?
She has become smaller, quieter.
Remove the oblique compliment
and now I am half delighted and half
ashamed and half hour.

Brewed up some girls:
my beautifulinsideandout
ladyfriends. Here’s my review
of those rare shades
like a nightmare in the new Order
and you are made.
Right as rain. Howls
on moonlit nights.
We each won a trophy.

Thank you, friends who say I’m a
surefire way of ascertaining
whether we quarreled.
Oh, this is rising. It’s thick
as cotton batting. Hope
your training is going to mischief.

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