Friday, June 26, 2020

The sill on your forehead,
your laughing goatee,
Can thumping on the radio
drumstick wires

salt ridges in the fault line
tugging to be free of light,
shrugging beneath tar
nevertheless carrying
the bronze lightning
from a gash
from a fond echo
that was more than zero
days added up
in the eyebrows of that face
and the vast clouds

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