of grey garages in a neon rain
a seat in maple shadow
for a tower of smoking lips
built up in moss and vines
across a floor of stones
sublimely fallen.
Blood soaring through forked branches
streams caressing cracked letters
paths beaten by aching hands
through a bed of clay.
Stripped vessels unbecoming hair
the glowing grates for branding
tabled where the cook falls
to segmented floors
the shine of fragmented flesh.
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