We are hyper-aware and self-conscious to a fault —

lackluster beings full of barbeque-flavored chips and bubbly water.

The squirrels scramble like apostrophes through the scrubby brush,

relating amorphous flights of branches and seeds,

the scrawny language of pre-coffee collages in what dawn’s light hasn’t risen to yet.




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Davy Carren

Davy Carren

The only writer who matters

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