since the water runs deep in rickety, in blue, in the assertion of a pasty slug white over her skin, the poet finds her oldest self in a tone. don't. erase her from the memory of fire. postcoital glow on her face, she will feed the old fears. water the wilting wisteria. since the stone cold gut orbiting the floor is this ring of fire, this vulture dressed in space, she is the wind-fighter. word-shy, the propensity of a ridge forming within unforgiving soil.
there's no saving-
BITE THE DUST
hair curl over the patio in cobwebs. hunch. green snot of grass smother her gracious neck. easy easy easy. she waits for the bird taking off. shirt comes in the way, yellow hand-me-downs. reverse the knowledge of skin. jarred are the edges of night come to soothe her. eyes dissolve in a pool of digits. all this hair is the cage of her body. no life in vain, the sky erupting in light over the steeple. this is how to imagine gentle stroking. deny this picture. how to paint the sound of solemn in the motion of sermon. she tries again, on the dial tone a young voice dying. prolong every moment. like the snail slide soft off the small of her inside.
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