thrift store doorways,
the corners of the dream scraped
bare by dreaming claws,
lines of sand on shelves
where pages stood,
a sail of flesh torn wide
above a raging spirit
diving to inhabit the depths,
taking on the fertile magic
of encrusted wrecks,
a beaten nude on sand arena floors,
thinking of an egg in a whirlpool,
thinking of a golden frame
with cracked glass,
thinking of a cardboard error
and a corrected bone,
thinking of so many drowned
lives in radiant plastic
all alone.
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