April 2, 2008
I will make a temporary make-shift tourniquet
of white finger tips pressed into skin
where your good morning questions pierced.

I will rattle to the floor like fallen leaves
dropping in 4/4 time to the sound of
our disappointments marching barefoot
across the cold linoleum.

I can still hear the rumble of your rust red distractions
eroding bricks in the walls of oriental sepulchres,
embroidered with hieroglyphs of heathen gods.

I will force my insides back behind my ribcage
because this chance to rebuild
might be our last.

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