The Black Helicopters
not even a shift in the night
or a bass chuka-chuka;
they will darken the humble sellers
of shrunken, dusty oranges
maybe a bad mouth,yellow teeth,
passed words to the birdmen
to crack open the sky,
a black walnut, half-brained
a ball of string,the smell of fire,
bags of sudden song,burnt shout of
hot and hot and hot;
nothing to put back together
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