Akshara Upanishad 891152.387

That god wearing a female head has
Long forgotten how my
Fingerprints look on umbrellas,
Cigarettes, toilet tanks, his light summer
Shoes skid on the icy pavement, shit,
He says, spoked wheels glide around,
The corks never fit the bottles if
The wine is good, they fall through while
I am delivering a speech desperately
Reading from a book, black text on
Black background, spoked wheels
Glide around, to a disappearing cloud
On the irrelevance of happiness to joy.

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