Our bodies hold together like
the way smoke tangles
and then vanishes
you could call it an addiction
but we're more of a cheap metaphor
for moth covered porch lamps
where children go to collect
insect bones and splinters
Constant tree knock gospels
you have woodpecker lips
leaving holes in
scattered veins
made out of every time
you ever said the words
"you and I"
I wouldn't mind the red
if you threaded our fingers
with wood chips
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