The low hum comes from the snow plow drum

on the streets that crumble like they’re free of gluten

You could mend them if You’re out there like it’s written

or is Yours just a name of theory

like that of Rasputin?

I pull back the covers of my childhood blunders

and I am finally free to escape the searing clutch of my blindfold

While I’m not made of money or of gold

it’s still a beautifully irreverent thing

to have your mind sold


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