My heart beats back against the tomb of Love

that asks for the righteous

lover to peace-wheel my car of life

Into the car repository.

So it called my name

and asked:  What is the real

love of life for, when it should be here

on the famed broad front of

doorways like yours?

It should not be held responsive but actual parts

of it should be, themselves, the words of the freemonted lover

of storms and so it is that you

understand that I need to fill my tank

with gas.  Arrest me now but do not stare

at the walled-in look of envy I share

with your love of four meaned useless

angered Toms.


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