Borders

are crevices between each hook as tasty and fruitional
as each of the harpoon-nail-drive-detectors

with their talon-sharp eyebrows
searching for a horizon, to zero
in and catch what has been missing, o

knotted in a canvas of mangled urethra, what
cannot be
nor can find reconciliation with
China

plates and their golden tea cup
ratio
for economics, under scrutiny
of the eye-less

mannequin-headquarters with its patched
microphone
surgically sown into the doll-maker’s jaw-line

talking of ending it all, the bridges
nearby are bread crumbs, last nights’
ice-cream still in the freezer brings me

tears

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