There's a placid place,
an unfulfilled space, where poets roam, singly, searching, singing the mystery marrow through their poem. It really smells in here. It always smells like fading urine, drying feces and blood, and dollar store disinfectant. Here comes one now--they just stare and point, then they walk on to the next one. Maybe it's my snotty nose or my one crooked, seeping eye or my bloody bandaged ear or my hairless tail. It doesn't bother me though, just that awful smell.
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