Where beneath I wore electric blue

With sweetly rotting blooms
resting on my table,
I drum a tattooed peace
while I pray to my god
who gives me second chances
to twirl in fog
or salute empty hordes
with Emmett Kelley,
sweeping spotlight
into glittery bins.

I clench in private places
when loud engines pass by
and I soothe myself
wondering if beets still hold magic.

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