Estranged
Estranged
He walks about with twelve toes.
They talk about the landing of UFOs over walkie-talkies,
and bog the sympathy of spectators
with manufactured grief,
making their feelings lose contact
with the breaking world.
Nobody could close the Grand Canyon in the soul of a demon who wishes to share his stories with inattentive passers-by
behind face masks and headphones.
Roaming around,
down in the dirt,
with a forgotten passport
that has no facial code
in Times Square.
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