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Jar of Coins

Cherry wheels and whiskey creeping
through the rusty blue, overvalued,
feeling good, idealizing the boy in love

She's not that beautiful (she came
from a promiscuous clan of the dead)

Snakes passed through grandmother's upholstery,
the backseat supporting the football squad.
There may be a grain of exaggeration, your own

Not my fault.

The asylum was full of old toys,
painted blisters,
loose screws,
cracked mirrors showing her trembling lips,

No trace of her red-haired father here,
who lay in wait, breathing personality, demanding
baby. Never get in trouble, misused
trouble intensifies grief, death, emotional balance.

The dead are lost objects.

Jagged windshields, black snakes and compost
closing doors from within, held her in screaming traffic.
Spring hooks breathe seat-back complaints,
joint pains with no physical cause,

do you make a fuss about doubts? 
do people like you?
are you afraid?

Junky souls, drunk for speed, unsatisfactory wreckage,
adult fans taking a special liking to you, whistling at heaving
spiders in cracked cups.

The child-snake keeps growing, breaks
through the clouds, shut off from broken eggs.

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