we are the lingering corners

beneath the pine wood and

myrrh, the summer pictures and scraps of discarded dreams,

arms tired from smithing the friendships as they fray and

make unnameable ends, lying still like the flickers of grasshopper fingers over the keys,

whispering against trust

weakening the knees,

the spine bends at the neck while craning forward into the screen,

we listen to the slow drip of electrons in the afternoon quiet and

the vibrations from the air conditioner’s rusting mouth.


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