All Of The Planets Real Motives

the sky was made out of a gladiator with the voice of a white dove
her eyes were small and cavern black, her teeth were window teeth, nervous
like people at a 1970’s disco but not knowing their part of a movement called disco with

dogs in this neighborhood for hair, sort of goblin-ish, with
human-baby mouths chomping on grass, she
brushes the water of her scalp over the sink

nearly forgotten pieces of chess flutter, when I was number one
on the chess team in high school, but those days
were torture, considering everything going on in the brain of a cemetery

but skies quit seeing when breath is as bad as sheep,
a chicken-stretched neck, an unmanaged sense of cell phone’s insides, it
simply took too much to reveal all of the planets real motives, and with a little more time

perhaps the sky would’ve found a way to take off her face and
reveal to the rest of us what we were actually made of, but
maybe it will happen another time

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