There’s this farm-silence
that only a house
fly could break.  It’s left
me with quick-heart questionings
where I seem to
forget what
companionship is—a love grown in small-talk
soils for fancy’s sake,
brought to life by wild
imaginings, Frankenstein-like.

This pop-culture love
divvied up into zip-lock bags,
labeled and
traded for
soft affiliations, paraded
in the eyes of
deal-makers.
They’ve profited little but a
malleable
plastic labeled thing of
their own
creation.

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