I am happiest at turnstile,
the metallic divider
in or out
before or after
time slices life,
brutal diviner
there is a place for every torn ligament,
each bruise, bunion and blister
All God's freaks and whisperers
the worshipped and discarded
find solace
in knowledge
commuters and travellers
wear itchy woolens on the eve of winter
Can you smell my cedar mothballs
and my plastic brink enlarger?
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