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Like a Thousand Things Still in Flight It still amazes me. You smoking on the corner of the bed, blowing pale little smoke rings through larger ones knitting your lips and tongue until some corporal target hovers momentarily absolute, then storybook when you startle as a bird quivers awake in the attic. How every time a thermometer shatters between your teeth you hear marbles dropping on mirrors, see ghosts made from coffee filters swimming from your mouth. My tongue simply absorbs the words you’ll never hear. Let’s believe mostly in our mouths and call the smell of warm dust limping from the vents the diction of this room, call your morning dress: extinguisher, the quelling static of lace against hipbones. Because it still amazes me to think, that I can see no further than the high-rise behind you, the forgery of sky lifted from gallery walls, the autumn leaves like traffic lights oscillating green, then yellow, then red, in the updraft of alleyways; in the parking lot’s dark anatomy. Consider the house key you broke in the lock of your body a blessing. No more will the boys vanish from your field, than call it standing alone in a landscape. No more will the boys write your name in chalk, erase it with their hands, and clap you into dust.
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