Milk Row

flushed out along the margins as a creep society
out into a swirl of stasis,  as if a cannery stood by the old graveyard
along the street that was a road they trucked milk down in
the times they had rangeways & cattle out across the city streets;
margins of who we aren’t but partly were slung over blue sky days,
as a reminder that every bit of time comes from bleeding:
a lash manages place or location,  like if you broke a stereo or a mirror; so you
creep thru moments on streets named for gone buildings. &
society swhirls around, frittering deep in your/our/his/my nerves.

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