fresh page

the fire of my bones cant trace raindrops as they trickle
quickly, quickly now
horizontal across highway-car windows
the hums of spinning discs in laptop drives
looking for warmth there
and in small, fuzzy human-substitutes
the red dress on the ten-dollar rack
doesn’t cover as much as she’d like
but that doesn’t matter
because the more she reveals
the more she seems to find
that’s pretty enough
to reveal
the fog behind the retinas
can’t erase
the feeling of distinct control
that comes
with throwing it all away
crumpling the draft
and starting over.


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