a honed blackness amounts to greedy
intangible pores from which
your muster cries—
i've seen the phases of the moon in your eyes
through the foam of your hard cider
two decades of tinkering and one year
of settling culminate into a twenty-first century
state of mind: where men can be men and
women can be greater-than-or-equal-to,
where dollar bills keep the wheels turning
in your brain
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