Turn over the ruined cheeks of the mountaintops to give their lungs some sun the earth bones crackle as it coughs up its blackened stomach and you feel impolite as you stare at the many deaths its died feel like it, the displaced beggar and you, the passerby guilty in your own health you have nothing in your pocket but a handful of seeds and maybe a few mouthfuls of her heart left over from last night they might grow, yet you lay them down and hurry away We don't have much longer on this earth, might as well leave something pretty behind Return to the Kentucky Collection.
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