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Broken bones lay on the callus of
a daughter who will never know
her father was a liar, and bleach was in
all of the tops of, mountains and eyelids.
Wishing for rabbits and cleaner than politics.
Somebody’s finger was, ripping into the skin.
Our daughter was ageless and beetles did harness
the stench of her crying mind, all the
while her body lied.
Open to caskets and boys without ligaments.
Joining together, to form at an opening.
Cry for your mother who, remembers the
china dolls.
And all of your teeth biting down on
the swallow.
The birds still cry somewhere, like, out
in the distance of red crafty spiders.
Webbing us up in our hues.

I know of the crooked way
Mondays got colder on the slates of depression
And hopeless is left out, to fetch the pair of your
buildings of snake skin, the trickster, the following
tongue of the near mind. Look too hard to go blind.
Retching up violets to slip away slowly from all
of the wanting, the nagging and sunshine.
You can’t catch a heat wave from summer swept passages.
We’re waiting for boats to fill up with the water
of God again.
Now the rain won’t stop again.
God’s in the parliament.
She’s dreaming of the father who,

never cared to know her first name.





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