if this is lock and key
to the appearance who peers upon this—
then you’re missing your

own life at this moment a drawn-line
thin-stalk of
shadow follows in crimson

undead, drooling for harbor among
familiar symmetry, to sit
and hug the chair to what feels

as if to belong, yet
days are crooked, the
weather is sad and the ruins of

Palmyra remain
ruins of human-psychology, raped
in public then beheaded, and

it continues, poisonous
water from Denver City, if
this is too short and

cut at the breath, or
too boring with not enough fire, then

numb-zombie-infested conditions
have quarantined the brain
guessing at our name

upon the resemblance


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