A button from the pail sewn to an old overcoat. Then lost. All small things are linked, similar to mail in droopy weather, altered and silently mourned. The moon has gritty teeth, corn yellow and full-feeling, spiced on time and cribbed knuckle shutters like frozen thoughts recorded to magnetic tape, frosted back and forth. Who can trust that smile? Mileage upon the dash. Gnash.
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