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Rainbows flashing on a windowsill during
the tantrums of these high-winded thunderstorm currents.
Your smell still clings to my skin like an abused sweatshirt and
I have turned the thermostat so low that there are
goosepimples like the Andes
little comic book bubbles of thoughts
on nuclear fission, euthanization, the razor burn on his neck.
We are cutaneous
and the breezes shall not be settling, for the summer
curtains are crying out to be shaken.
I insist on being adipose. A gorging on
sweats through your pores and
It is the curse of lavender petals on this mid-day tongue, a
hedging on the backyard brush.
The raspberry seeds he had in his smile,
there are no cadavers sitting in my parlor.
One need not own a bicycle to be cicular.
Sunday pancakes and
the fruit is accosted with great white lakes. I broke a nail.
They say that I should trim the rest in order to be