one.
below these ripples
a mountain of cold waits.
she blankets me in the night
her mothering a wool sweater.
my taut skin spits up red patches of protest
the fingernails comply.
two.
another afternoon blinks by
her wrinkled warm hand under the blanket
a fertile womb of rocks.
we cannot share words
from the ear to the mouth, our frequency of sound
spins uncollectible by the sweeping past of
looks, of animated hands.
i lower myself into a train
defeat in the crook of a long day.
i slice at the webbed morning of self
dilute it with water from the eyes
and stir it into a reward.
three.
fingerpicked from the chaff
we is a slow snail
it rakes through the day.
once or twice out the parting of lips
it escapes through the slowest breath
creeping quietly from the nose.
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