Grimbeau
stinks putrefacted
wasted generations follow
anything but
worse
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Elevenish
Big rains water the pampas
washing away dust and clues.
The flora sleeps soaked
and wakes to day kisses
of sun and breeze.
Mind out of time out of mind.
July swings all the way to Westward Ho! and Hell.
The buttercups are salted by soft tears
smoothed away by aphids.