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Shovel’s Neck

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In the dark, the dust motes danced in silence as the clock ticked-tocked
and the moon closed its eyelids to what had been. Now a shallow shudder
lay me down to sleep as I pull me chin up to my cheeks of chipped flesh
and bone with the left hand of sod covering my phantom’s insanity
with the smooth curve of the shovel’s neck.

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