on the lips of the dead of the earth
and the speech of days past
scattered among pages left behind
city squares left empty
with painted pavements
high windows home to the ghost
looking out alone from wounded portals
tongues of memory are blades in the air
scents of kisses withdrawn
are the thorn in every cushion
cute mechanics of excreting corners
seams of living beams
lashed to the levels of descending hives
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