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Thoughts on the Bus After LosingYour Car Keys in the Graveyard
Drunken sun, fallen face forward, sleeps between rocks and headstones,
and the moon, clumsy trickster, is tangled in monkey tree’s arms.
The bread you broke, devoured by assailing ravens, leaves no trail,
so you glance through the uneven gates, reach deep into pockets once more.
Ronda Broatch
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