Monday, April 20, 2020

No I did not
taste the final
baptism in fire,

but I did punch in.
The vessel bent as the light
comes curbing over,

I dig my blades
and hang on to the hearse

of streets on pause
bleeding neon gum,

granite cut stomped grass
and razor eye sight

tucked in plummeting gauze,
where the stern narrows to water
and salt sting

to the rings of talking molecules

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