Atlanta, even your magnolias
smell like credit cards—
they are pretty, sure,
they’re grand. Always
the whine of power blowers
like a thing strangled,
its last cries. Hear
the fountain tinkle
in the erotic shade
of a Japanese maple.
Atlanta, the twinkle
of your glass raids ill
in me. I’m trying to love you
without getting in the car.
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