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As again I turn to my pad
of white terror, waiting
for something to emerge
like the slowly developing
negative of a Polaroid,
I feel the weight of the silver,
emphysematous sky
sagging between the earth's
outstretched arms flexed at the elbows.
Just outside the window,
clusters of Plumbago blooms
loom like the lavender,
gloved fists of boxers hugging
near the end of the twelfth round,
mustering strength for a punch,
looming in a world where pounding's
all that counts, the dull thud
of light against the night
its tethered to, lagging
like a loyal black canine.
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