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- by Linn Barnes

-Linn Barnes

The smudge has become 
more than toxic,
fouling the vaguely fall air,
wilting the fine colors on
the shinning leaves, here 
in beaten Washington,
where walking the streets 
has become not so much 
dangerous as tiresome, 
where the foul debris of 
less than intimacy rings 
sour, invading the pores,
grinding down the 
will to endure the grim 
future of yet more 
putrescence to come,
as we seem to be entering
a time of beginning
to witness a needful 
yet dreaded collapse,
where the willing 
sewers will shout out and
stand open for the prey.