map (of) rust
i rode the wings
of the great beast:
you. in time, in turn,
your hopeless melody—
you sit in the dandelion skulls
with piano keys under your eyes
to dine in the death voice
of your sadist mind.
you brought fire
to the snow, each touched
lost their individuality, becoming
all the rest, a drop.
my morning mother
my mother slept adversely.
though through the night
her face unfolded. it smoothed
over. her lips were pink earthworms.
her tongue became sober,
a softened sword. in bed
she was a cocoon, half-exposed.
anxiously at the wound
i sleep in the fog
of your morning
breath
in the overspill
we disappear
catching the hook, the dream
glints in the murky water
glimpses
i shape into your image
//
i wake, empty headed
afraid confused
weights sewn into my palms
where are you
the cold wraps me
like a grave
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