We don't have hills up here
Just lake and forests level
As limp blankets,
never enfolding the city,
Wreaths tucked away in attics.
And every foot falls flat
Every being on equal standing,
And how we hate eachother,
Better than anywhere else:
we hate
The cars screaming and the
Bikes in their way,
The shooters stand
At gas stations, waiting,
And all of us simmering in it,
Living our lives in the heat
Of the flatlands.

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