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lots of people making shadow puppets, two former lovers exchanging kidneys boiled— howling, a kid in a bathrobe — lonely and in a good mood
You, a crescent circle under two stars; when this man, the one with the over shorn tie, he sells you an oke; once a baritone when I was but the cum between thighs, made in wildfire and born between a hurricane and a blizzard —
the skeptic in you is a portent scowling; the hidden addict drinks envy heavier these days, well with sober. the
tongue which binds us
a pine burns in bedroom
I in black suit bury the bed—
my hand reaches out to you
words illegible — it seems a lot of light has washed away the last of you
— my mouth a wailing wall