Glue drying up, Post-Its, their curling corners,
autumn inside.
Tumbled basket fodder of to-do did-not.
I can't stop sighing, my exclamation points are less saccharine,
less a safety net for me and my strangers,
less a sweet stage fog around agitation.
They're breaking up the down-path,
the banality of evil gliding into
incompetent, formless fear.
The banality of self-regard,
me before lunch, parting myself out and so locked onto to myself;
the jaws of a stupid barrelling dog, tongue trailing eye white of a mess,
more human than I, in its terror, its anger and its release.
A dog's dinner of this,
it's made.
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