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H o w i e   G o o d

T h e   N e w   N o r m a l


It can become tiresome, 

all this point, counterpoint.

Nobody seems to realize 

we should eat nothing but clouds. 

Linger someplace too long

and contexts begin collapsing.

I’m sailing with the rockslide, 

a crumbling yellow moon. 

I’ll be back by my next birthday, 

attractive, hip, cradling a lamb, 

the lamb looking a little uncomfortable.


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