Then Voices Crumbling At The Hill
Covered In A Burlap Sound, Stuffed With Cotton-Weight
Turned Against My Ascent
Shin Bit, A Rock, A Rubble-Stricken Cliff
My Hissing Fling AFACED against sweat
Me, a curtain shifting before light
My Own, a water that is shuddering when cold
More Breathing To Be Done
During fast riding on a bike
on a sudden whiplash twist
to check you out
to see your neck, to swear by it
to adore and cure myself with it
to know a thread that fell from your pocket
Making ready a parcel, falling outside of itself, found out that no binds would suffice
no foil to crumple around it or melt over it like wax
no eardrum to blow the suprise from your face when you see the milky inside of the shard
splitting a dash of light over the white mannikin's family tree
hitting you in the face over and over with a fake foot
Murderous, weird comedy, Me
Fixing a tangle at the end of a notch
by the night we stuff pine needles into the fist of skin that we hold
trying to feel the whole earth shatter
right when we fall
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