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To Jamie Cavanagh's previous piece
visitors late in autumn the spring-fed green can but briefly hold against the wrecking-ball sun. the slow ticking clock wound up ticking too quickly. the price of dope is not paid from a wallet. and the field lies barren in autumn. the constant clouds refuse to spill. the shadows marking light are blurred and gaining. lies tumble from the lips of shills, from the lips of failed actors sliver haired and rented. demon sirens scream like a whistle on the chests of the dead coming home. shortening gray clock-tick tomorrows dwindle in expectation. an accrescence of memories trundles across the roadway like a train full of ghosts coming home for a visit.
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