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Procedural Poem

Kay Gabriel

My phone corrects it to avant-grads
Avant-grads—there's more than one?
And what could it mean? Behold the avant-grad:
Good texture, beautifully moist—no, that/s a cake.
Oh! He enters with a suitcase!
It's light, nothing inside.
Goodbye, avant-grad! I love you, go die!