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 at 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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