Zywa
My sweet
I can see it
in the double-pane
people wear themselves
on their back
their shirts are tighter
than their skin
turkey guys raise their fan
more proudly than Mr. Peacock
with bound hands
they parade in the smell
of their dry-windy gut bacteria
and they let homeless people live
on the wet coins
from the old fountain of love
and I see myself
joining in to keep what I have
my dear self on my back
because I love my sweet
deceit
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