44 Barber Street, Windsor | Miguel Escobar

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restricted airspace

at your beck and call


the stress of racism —


its entry

into the lexicon


— with us

waiting out of breath for

every new edition



guitar electric twang


— hymn

of liturgical pulp fiction


where is

commonwealth on a map


you might look at

44 Barber Street, Windsor


revolving doors


in same sense as

farewell being waved

to arms —

in the act of bidding goodbye

to words



being bid

stand up for

the enshrined piece of music

— or relive

separation anxiety

in a kind of

life behind bars —


at the bible museum

— a use of the near-death experience

as so much more than just

an excuse

for slacking


an about face

— like most normal people


then wither

from heights — feeling slain


Provence or its corollary all a mood

— toss and turn

it turns out for decades



to be found here

happy to have known Tolstoy


I can rest now


we never need think

of ourselves


being apart
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