I came to in a corn-field the size of Rhode Island
Under veil of a confused, bobine stupor
Bleared vision through milkey eyes unable to bring form
To the nasuea of my current displacement
I tongue at the details of my destroyed pallet
The ripped upholstery of my cheeks
And all I taste is copper and battery acid
A thick, repungent sickness
All spilling between the spaces
Of my derooted gums
I wish I listened to my grandmother when she tolkd me
Never to talk to strangers.
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