one stone is turned under
moss grows rolling sing sly
and the family knows
mum's the word, shush is the flower
too rain wet to tell
two ways around
the Beside are
aside, "in the lobby, 'ist' is an insult"
and seaside, "don't bury your brother"
as a whole,
people seem to like parts
and troubling between them;
the middle way
is way up there
where some sandy signs lean.
I could feel my bloodstream panhandling my fat reserves for whatever last
traces of the vital addictol they had stored away, and I could feel my fat
cells turning out their pockets and saying sorry pal, there's nothing left.
-- Jonathan Lethem, "Gun, with Occasional Music"
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