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The Scenic Route

Submitted by m mactavish on November 17, 2007, 8:54pm.

Every morning hear
muted yellow chapels sing
and golden pews flit.

Snow on the street melts.
The persimmon twigs below
snap like gingerbread.

A curious voice
washes dishes while next door
the town brothel sleeps.

The mortician winks
for with violets and ash
he cremates the dawn.


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