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I’m not into the introductions tonight. Let’s just write a poem:

Here, Right Here. 

Here, it’s a great, tired night, and a night meant for clapping. There you go making my head swing back and up and forth, and here and there, my hair swings around like plain old wishful fish-hooks, and here, right here there it lands in the silt. Here, it’s a good thing to know and be right here, it’s a good thing to know all the names of the creeks, and these hills, what are they called? Are they called Home, now? aren’t they called Home then? Here, right here is the way that riverbank smells like home, here, right here is where I get back up on those days. Jewel, that’s what we called the basin, and Logan, that’s what we called that pass, that pass filled will snowbanks and damage, I think that it is the famished horse that calls us home, and it is the city of Martians that lure us in, and despite the climb, here, right here is where it gets put down, on the rock petticoats, here, right here is where our heads rest.

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I dunno. Goodnight, poemies.

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