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barren corpse

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you tumble into my head
(my eyes my hands my lungs)
unfold your legs
build a tent, blow up mattress
nurse a fire
as if you’ll be there a while
as if overnight sweeps
a couple hundred years
as if the barren copse
of my head
(my arms my bones my heart),
was chopped down
and burned
and left to rot
only for you
and your tent
and your blow up mattress.

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