Are not those words, dressed as they are
In tall impregnable suits of gold and grey.
What are those but road signs
Which point to towns filled with accountants
And no good diners where we can lay our heads.
We don’t need phrases, metaphors, or towering paragraphs
Which can’t even stave off the night. It’s stupid to try,
If that’s even the right word.
But what else is there?
We’re down to just our socks
And we’re drawing the blinds
Over our eyes where, like children,
We forget that things are still there.
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