I saw the black man writing poetry virtual.
Stigmata of poems, tiny deposits of poems.
And I in my red book I lent her wrists.
I ask the black man's abduction,
possession, I misunderstood the meaning of the speech,
and I struck my heart, singing the pain of bumps,
smoothing for twelve months point.
Black man running in parallel,
is held in balance on my perfect day.
The shooting of sucking away cravings. Get away
with my echo in the orbits.
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