Tuesday, April 10, 2018

The scar on my brow is scraped
from staring fiber optics
into broken gears,
my cabinets float around me
in a heavy flock,
the trapped light funnels
and pulls.

Long doors and evaporating corners
sneak around us like
hidden touches of make-up,
rugs pulling an antique floor,
the skylights blushing red
with high-up vehicles.

You are smooth and bulbous
in the folds of crouching linen.
Slimming crowds fork away
from each other
around your trick elbows.

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