From the Ballads Of Romy Snyder

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Now I can see my portrait
in a corner, in the dust
and mother’s voice from her fortress
is withering with rust

time can’t steal her features
as we rolled our car down the hill

arms pressed forward and her head snaps back
froze in a pose that could never look back

tazed and tethered, battered and weathered
smoke in the rain
my mind is pulled together in a symphony
of tangled treasures
and tentacles of pain

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