Sullen color in the cortex suffocates.
My organs are your secret destination.

I can’t establish which part of me is proof.
I measure the curling road visibly.

Seven springs in a row, you would find me 
at numerous parks, the library, in limbo.

I disappeared, came back, but not always
from the grave or a windy dream. 

Both American coasts
have seen my soul sit naked twice.

There’s an accrual of identity, something
rearranges schemes that make me nervous:

my envy, my need for too much comfort
in dark heat. 

I was made out of two conventional masses 
making temporary space. I recreated deceit.

The sticks we drew were cousins, birds & stars. 
Simple & essential.

What burns is a dialogue with stiff voices
& bones. I am losing my being,

a lost sock like a leaf, I was known.
I am correcting myself for tomorrow’s collision. 

I am closing my eyes with the lights on 
& it feels wrong. 

I have something to tell you. I sleep.
I slept on you. I exaggerated sympathy.
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