sans
as real as a grocery cart
in the kingdom
of sickness, as the store
I belong to, as the lonely
wheelchair
enthusiast, as the candle
lit
that becomes
the idiot’s
flower, as god, as real
as the owls
of those who’ve groomed
their spineless
sons
to wash
the hair
of the one
still
giving birth
on a rooftop, books
by the baby
nickname
kingsoftrain 
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