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Pile
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Touched by Comfort
It's the same place on a map But most things have turned over. Buildings repurposed, money exchanged Between floating hands.
I thumb through, looking for something flammable But I can't rely on getting handed a book of matches every time. I wish it were direct where things can go But only pictures, always pictures. Covered in dust that I ate from a bag at a place we bought gas. Hobbling into childhood again. He'll thank me for my blessing, But I barely keep in touch.
It's the same place on a map But most things have turned over.
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