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Wednesday, January 23, 2013

not enough words in a single bottle

she had hands
that would shake,
and sweat,
at the first signs of light.

window frames
and bed springs
ripped apart (from,
not with) the embrace,

void of cont(r)act
-a lost art-
courted on the steps
of a courthouse

and left
to fend for itself
amongst dogs
that chase "however"

with teeth and tongue,
rippling, gnashing,
for a place to pick clean
all the bones of "heaven".