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, the slow drip of electrons in the afternoon quiet and the vibrations from the air conditioner’s rusting mouth

twilight creeps in with the gold dust, the broken handles of windows
candle bulbs in tower windows, crossed by the weakening dark and purple, the low shadows and the breath of the city in cotton, the clapping of shoes and ice cream buds strapped into waffle petals, the ringing of the evening star, loudest
in the dimness, the matchbox beds and the cat’s eye
welcome mats of concrete like open graves.

the night deadens, the hands curl and the chest seeks warmth
the eyelash weakens against the thralls of sleep, the inching at the neck, strung tight by the shoulderblades struggling to give in to fatigue, the cold of the air, the scratching at the stoop’s foot, there is red on the mouths, fires in the bodies and restlessness in the fingers, rolling up the thighs, stalling the knees, the snails twining in the tongue’s branches

the rust bends and creases, darkening on the limestone fingernails,
sun and moonlight interchanging, wrapping us around one another, sliding beneath the sheets– risking the ivory whites and the seas of turquoise, the slimming of the hips and the mouths widening, fitting the lips to the teeth and eyes to the socket ceilings, the writhing stretch, the lengthening of the circuits, a tightening of the ribs and arching spines, the frothing of sleep, a rising, a cautious placement of feet on the hard wood floor.

the cracks are just shower steam and lightness,
sips of juices and the intake of crinkling air and the first cries of daylight’s drops
the opening is fluid, driving into the open mists, deeper into the scalds, the trickles and the bend of the toes into dove soap and plaster, heat into the veins, soaked in by leather palms and the curling hairs, the day runs about the ankles, flitting in the breaking light, into the ease down the stairwells and the stretching cords, the calmness in the shuffle of feet, a broil in the first inhale of the waiting moments, time is stalking–
poaching from the weariness and the dead feet of skyscrapers, eating the grass, drinking the sunshine, and feeding
on the slim bodies.

the day rolls in like a calm tide
stealing the sand
coveting the glassiness, slickening the mind’s shore
leaving behind the sandcastle dirges
casting us out
into the slow, dark waters

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