morning. black, bird
on the bones of a beast, like hips or roses
and i have not yet beaten my body into that smell.
the drunken of sweet
token of a wrist.
small: spill your dark life there.
for the despot girl in between
where your tongue takes bereavement.. . .and then you breathe.
my love hung herself
the nave of where
you whore witness.
i have killed the pink sun for you.
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