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This has been the season we splayed

in rooms rewarded to us for an interlude


by the ruse of others, well

and coldly lit. You played a long,


sometimes fitful song while

my insides turned within me, the tissue


outside its place, blood

the wrong color. Ache has forged a lack


of precision, I noted roughly

as I laid and, too, I weighed less, worried


chore-like that these ragged

words might slip, be burdened


with young meaning and I would be left to

console my personal science, a fold


of languages. The issue of the raged

cells executed a regular cycle as


they became reworded, displayed,

and unaided again in bed I misread


teaching for tending. Rebellion made rifts

elsewhere when my edges disordered within


or yours bloomed into orbit, time to

lounge, to long, to lang around as ages riven.