Washed and spun blue jeans
Solid years of solid substantia
Abstinence keeps the hangover at bay
Yet not a day goes by
The drift the mirage the ghost of abstentia
The blossom bouncing the birds chirping
The writer at his ease at his writing
He collects the dust he throws the confetti
And the blackbird runs do blackbirds run
This blackbird runs across the cedar shingle tiles
Runs right up to the edge right up to the very ledge
And he can't help but thinking
Is she wasting away will she soon
Be no more than the bones of a lived life
And he can't help himself but to write about
The doubt the depth the chill the fret
The sweat beads of improbable deferentia
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