under a pile of skies
lawn-mowed memories
fading into ferns and pines
in the brass guts of open basements
like a pill on a leaf
water-haunted in my suit of knives
watching from the last greased overhang
the fevered makers unravel
their sacred wares
and the web of my veins
outgrows my being
chalk dancing on a marble slab
I take back my sacrifice
and swallow its scorpion blood.
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