Poem: An Ex Game


It’s not a nothing back-flip or

a no-hands four-five sidey

with rotation spun – assistance from

the phone clock-set and Flowers popped

I knew to gain slight air from morning

July breeze gust up towards

a peak in cycle if one such day

into those heads, atop some sternly

clouded hills, that call or yearn me

listening as I spurn all talk

to rest on bony pillowed bow, a statue stuck, a smart device.


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