by Susan S. Keiser
No one thinks
to dream
Black Mercy
scrapes, churlish
from sense-slick
long ago
I was often there
in promenade,
sick by the clevelander,
pools dissolving
into dead or dying eyes
borne on
tres delinqentes
in its full descent
to plasma-blue
2 bleu,
ce ciel est bien au bleu.
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