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I can’t differentiate dreams from the scrapping landscape, the fire
escape. The fire escape where daisies sprout

from sugar laboratories and small lines of memory. My body is one I don’t know the name

of anymore. I love and love then—. Point over
where the streetlamps are joyous
motions of snapping fingers left out in the rain

too long or not long enough. Cull hint and gather
your shade palm and moan psalms. This isn’t a pain but a reaching.
This isn’t a reaching but a root.

Then blood.

Then blood.

Then shaking and repeating.
Too much blood wilting
down stones and bark and teeth. My teeth tell me to sermon crows.
My teeth tell me to speak crow.

O crow! O crow! O shadow not mine and shaking and peeling off my sad and tired!

Lay your bloodied shadow down seaward;

    motion for the creeks to hang the red rosary light.

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