killers

Dead frogs and lost gloves
can hear the trains whistling underground.
Rain asks dead people every kind of question
they are not able to answer. It is
furious like a drunken ant at the bottom of a star,
the bottom most of us shall never reach.
Fish crawl all over the walls and fences
stealing our breath, transmuting
our blood into ketchup, gathering
the bottoms of our words. You know,
we are as phoney as serial killers.

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