And some are so nearly round
They roll in all directions
And won’t be stacked,
But chortle with chaotic glee.
Others are so perfectly flat
They pile atop one another,
Layer after layer of sound,
Multitracked slices
Of prairie monotone.
A few congregate in the corners,
Smoking themselves raspy,
Whispering like lovers sure
No one will ever, ever listen.
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