of spraypainted days
our shovels lined up
with egged porch railing names
the vast sarcophagus where we smoke
rope frames to climb the water tank
sad nuptials of teeth and bone
the river's path a feather vein
blindly committed.
Sunk in our twin armchairs
maps of a ghostly pillage
piled on the paper between us
a ship in every bottle
past the parted sun.
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