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Pressure Shutters
 
they are all of me, weighted,
standing tall, flattened, 
raged,

you see they carry it,

how they talk to you,

how you feel around them, 
shieldlike,

responding with shells of 
self,

married,
single, 

nights hanging out the backdoor
without a shirt, holding a beer and looking into nothing,

they are out there 
long enough, 

hanging out enough, 

fighting crayfish with tough foam in their hair,

poop-fresh lies hanging from their cloaks,

you talk to them with your microphone,
as you bear down on them with a laden cart,

crackers,
oil,
packets of meat,

inside are their old black lungs itching.

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