the birds are rising
the ground is moving, everything coming up south
they are licking the air, tasting the ground with her feet and burning holes in the minds, holes in the arms, fires into the couches in the scorched evenings–the embers of the fingernails wave and dip black leather and spices, eye deep in malice, love like matching clavicles on the edge of flute-notes, is chased around the warehouses, fought in the scratching of the walls, the lights and the spinning bits of plaster that flutter like the tools of ravens
disappearing like the smoke in the mornings, waking with the dusk, living only to breathe in the night’s fog, touching only the metaled walls, ashing herself into the brick, half stepping into beauty, like she means it, finding anything steady, hoarding away all the quiet moments and holding them close
sclupting everything from loneliness
repeating ‘happy’, again, and again from their rasping beaks

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