you think the moth pivots aimlessly, like young love in parking lots (stairwells, porches); you think the sky bleeds blue, somehow more human; you are wrong; i dealt with you in the gauze of midnight’s highway light, my cigarette drawn like a gun, perched between knuckles; bright height, unshade the earth’s green grass and mock the moon for its many houses; my heart still inches over the tropics, skipping storms to oppose you, further away on the cool polar wrath of my wishing; pinned by the possibility of your sound coming toward my house, feet hiccuping soft-flat shivers, bouncing on my screen door

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