Life, the blurry apparition,
Like driving through winter
When the snow and salt
And ice white out your windshield,
Stands on one leg,
Not quite the promenade,
Nor the dance we feel
Between our toes,
But rather the lost expression
Of the ill-newsed,
Holding to a form of espionage
Although we routinely deny
Its deception, but
Rather the awkward sleep
Of flamingos against the pink
Of sundown, where
Our lives, we think,
Sink into dim waters,
When really the sun,
Because the earth
Is the revolver,
Doesn't set at all.

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