let the hurt run deep
your hands poised there look at them
the big gun fretting at its work
there in the market mid-afternoon
buying wool for the evening
guffawing away into smoke
I looked down at my finger snapped off
the train coming in
the misty postcard light
rain of blood
is this perfect?
here I will diode
and shrink
like bee wolfs
thick and sharp
full of green
in the thick fear I think of breasts
I think I see them
coming at me
why the sad comfort of dripping eaves
as little cold mouths looking out?
this wine goes everywhere
nothing is elated
is there any difference
facing a bullet
standing on tiptoes
looking down at that fall
I am scared by your sex
love is a pattern recognition
I suppose
here in the wild hills we ride red goats
sleep in wet disaster
wake to explosions
you want to be us
you hate us for it
.
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