water damage in the locked office

i’m not returning any calls but one day

we might we’ll buckle & rupture like

some hasty roof tiling or the awkwardly

bonded fabrication or just sit a little

closer in the pub ever more accidently

present individual jellies of charged atoms

& two-tone beer addled simplicity as

my mailbox is collecting rainwater at least

gaining measurable data is a thing & once

i titled a poem ‘the case of the 65 Saturdays’

not a gesture not future-think for my server

date stamp issue just a slapdash & non-

experiential stab a plane-crash mystery &

now how poignant is embarrassment i’d like

to bottle it preserve it feelings squished

in a sodden inbox for another epoch

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