Sketches of a Dead Man Breakfasting with God -- Star Black


My love is drinking orange juice.
He is top rank, musico-dramatic. He is a write-up.
Here, in the shortcomings of design,
I have a juicy salary. I lack distraction.
It is too luscious-looking.
Downcoming concerns wear two neckties,
variants touched by living breath, re-eruptions,
but now it rains, slightly, lightly,
and the daisy-chains come loose: on-and-off friendships.
I see them from a caboose.
The world is near-sensual, a pinch.
Who can complain, Virgil,
who can complain about this?

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