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by Luke Salazar
The sun, a bloated tangerine,
drowns in a skyline flushed with ash.
California breathes herself.
We choke our lungs with detritus –
a fog that was, just hours ago,
the attic beams of someone's house,
a wedding portrait on the mantle,
her manuscript, half-finished,
the cat that wasn't saved.
Tequila Sunset, grenadine horizon.
We turn to watch our sun engulfed
in flame, and swallowed whole.
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