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You get older, you get pickier.
The lines you draw are stickier.
The decisions are few and far
between your
rational stations of the cross on the train.

Maintain, you keep telling the shelves,
refrain from
repetitive action syndrome, those old
excuses in the lumbar region
that especially enticing enigmas
of the shoulderblades:
the scapula is singing
to another scapula,
engines pulling us along.


 

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