since the water runs deep in rickety, in blue, in
the assertion of a pasty slug white over her skin, the
poet finds her oldest self in a tone. don’t.
erase her from the memory of
fire. postcoital glow on her face, she will
feed the old fears. water the wilting
wisteria.
since the stone cold gut orbiting the floor is this ring of fire, this
vulture dressed in space, she is the
wind-fighter. word-shy, the propensity of a ridge forming within
unforgiving soil.
there’s no saving-
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