do you see me breathing here,
seething here intimately,
communing consistently with
angels and delinquents
screaming for anarchy in
Chicago?
Go home. This isn't mine.
Delilah, I think,
you've moved me inappropriately.
I'd never say this on my own.
Alleviate my sensibilities,
too often I submit to
rationalities and do not
listen to myself.
I must go back to
Chicago.
Oh, this aching foot of
mine. How it drags;
how it holds me aloft.
I'm answering the phone
with halted breath.
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