Cunt sunrisef

Grass People. Big bejewelled belly, of fur and dog-turds
in the sun-denched wilderness of potato pie
rests my soul which is yours when I say goodbye
all the frogs weeping lost buttons into the well

Cunt Sunrise. You try to stick your fingers in it but it is just too far away
all colors of pink and red and light
geting brighter, getting stronger
until it finally crests in a stunning toe-curling moment that passes before it is even noticed
then it is just a memory
you are sure it was there a moment ago but you already forget what it was really like

Irish bog. Irish blood, ancestral home of teardrops in eggshells
giddyup, little horse, we must



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