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Because You Prayed for Me in Fifteen Languages where the skyline is gaseous and candied, soft like wading pool algae, daisies of a forgotten civilization wave triumphantly among collapsed beehives.
here we stop, hold each other like marooned space travelers, our lungs percolating with mercurial sighs we call consequence.
papier mâché tulips serve as subterfuge for disappointed saints, their home-spun prayers ensnared in abraded wheat fields and diluted by icemelt.
we gaze through your father’s old binoculars as if to bring the clouds closer to our bodies, you clutching my left wrist where we both know that dull throb will stubbornly remain.
we pray to the cryptic silences of the churchyard, and i look to heaven as you’d look to bunched-up birds flying at a height you can’t quite comprehend,
you reciting scripture like a theatre of foreign syllables, your graceful, delicate scent running its fingers up and down my suffering as if it belonged to you and your god.
Bed Sheets & Typewriter Keys consider me a book and use your lips to obscure my barcode as you bend me at the spine, your favorite pages becoming familiar with fingerprints that cause my syllables to sing like kite strings and insulate me with shadows that rub like knife-nick and burlap against your knuckles.
a soft calamity inches beneath my skin as you kiss each typeset bone as gentle as a firefly across Underwood keys, as heartbreaking as the wreck of a model train.
if the mosaic of my binding reflects like DNA, the code will lead only to you, will spell out your name like kaleidoscope and magnet stretched across the canvas of your bedsheets
where our page numbers merge into ocean breath and streetlamp as you denigrate my bylines and use your pulse to curve me into a rhyme.
t o p |
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