Five fingers for the torn
hand that counts down.
Ripples in the rock
that will not yield.
Ways left behind on earth
that carve through space.
Years growing deep and strange
porous with dreamlike exits
photos of italic wind
articulate without bones
moving in a lack of lungs and teeth
the taste of rails that guide the morning
and swords of plastic joke
that choke the night
cells weeping in another life
tongues brushing dusty stone
afloat on solid darkness
a peacock's fan of beds
and tousled heads
arrived along electric lines.
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