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Who Says You Can Come Down Here?

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The dark wall panels
Pull back to release
Black birds coughing
Flippant moths.

The exterminator
Steps back and asks,
“What the hell is this?”

Yellow newspaper pages
Rise like sleeping chests
But there is no reason
For the wind to blow.

Now fizzle out the candles
On the dusty doll house cake,

Where butter cream moths
Set as rosettes
And the black birds
Are waiting patiently for their slice.

The fumigated basement
Steps back and asks,
“Who says you can come
Down here?”





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