a possible gossip but
our dear Nostradamus
who might have sipped
some muggy cocktail
before he got frazzled
by the rags of spirit
spilling silly worry beads
into the blizzard of his
own icy predictions
of murder, mayhem, and war
and, hoping for his sightless miss,
my vision is that of a lover
of peace, joy, and good tidings,
which will dazzle me in
twenty eighteen
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