***what can we tell each other when we're dead the sliding glass door of fate sinking in to dread the night and willpower's resistance the grace to find the light and need shirking the burning fork of your endurance to burn within the naked hour of the brine shaking its power in droplets from its body ***now with burning the tired and tremulous shattering not quite-- the excision of the laundry list of bright spots and burns scattered over the oasis lecherous delays time gaps and winters the knuckled furl of your voice embittered we can count the ways to know you tracking back through the minutes looking for the doorway out: some shield from the floor of the world where you were sighing ***the delicious tripe tucked careful beneath the whip where the calls whine round the light shining out from the theater on the brink: the naked liquid fire curls under my lip a kiss the naked flame of the temple under my heel ***the patience of the dark shimmers underneath the morning waiting for you to kiss its face the soldiers glimmer underneath their paint watching and waiting for the fragment of your eye beneath the pupil to tighten ***the pale weight of the light shines against my head
the fever's bled delight and bread into my skin like my enemies rejoice upon the field, the sinking sins of streets and alleys bind to my feet embracing the narrow weight of each incision in the day step into the breach beneath the air over the cement to cut the net or merely step away: some broken branch of the orchestra is warbling out its song of destruction an army of miscreants marking the tide with their every beat south to the sea
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