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P
o
e
m
s

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.