XC(o)upon the eighteenth


it’s not that the dead are better, they’re just more practical
take, for instance, the size of their cups or
the way that footsie can starts from the lower part of the calf
and ghost its way up to the top third of the thigh.
Erased blackboard backdrop and the press of flat circles
across the belly. If we were to sit inside our bones, hear
them rattle and fill the space agape in both of our cages
From the flat world on to a pearly string of concrete, the cross
at press in the ground, our hands upbraided in the energy
stammered to the lip of the cup and what other flat surfaces
we may have to cross in hope of gathering enough touches
to claim our bodies whole and shaded. The ash in the tray
a name for each wheel as it rolls through each of us. The lack
of rust and color in our brains, or on the chairs’ arms. A series
of weather patterned into the shape of steam, the forms of us
draped along the iron bars, distant sounds of tin cups dragging
along the interior of the day – vibration imprinted right there
above the table surface. What resonates for us is passing. 


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