in the fork of crossed things
the map of twisted worlds
longing to break the bright threshold
blindly painting a door
fangs and knives and their sisters
webs of cooling or sizzling death
the shape of sleep that slithers
coiling in a corner
weaving a bronze wig
snuffed sparks of a frozen suit
days that twilight does not depart from
scrubbing and raising an idol
on fettered grass
the rows of mirrored lockers.
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