Globes

Oh atom bomb kiss them sweet,

yellow paper skin, but we all come from

the same beast, or Eve got a sunburn of the womb, depending on your thinking.

 

Over time we see ourselves as high art

because we pine for Eleanor Rigby and her lonely people. Looking back to where they come from is

only half the key, more comes from what gets bottled in times loose capsules

.

Little battleship, your sad crusaders trapped, corked in dead space while Napoleon's manhood lies in a glass case,

under an admission fee. A punch line made of a tyrant; would Josephine love him now?

History knows us well, playing on infinite repeat while we’re nostalgic for trash and hungry for the moments we steal from the back pockets of winter tableaus.

Skate away on me, the river, sitting with one eye closed, fearing what’s behind

These daily triumphs.

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