Intercourse blues / Poetry

// On people // In Porcupine

Porcupines of the world unite
for winter just knocked.

New world, old world
of the earth or of arbor.
The battery charges
Like Icarus to fire.

Two close, too close.
Barbs burn. Unions turn.

Company divides the mite
Towards the right degree of warmth.
Of separation.


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