during some tailspin turnaround
i kick rocks and skin cells,
pushing dust upwards and nothing out
the stain sticks to my skin
my every sigh is marble cracking,
or a sugarcube crumbling apart
i let the residue melt between my teeth
i have this street to myself:
in some faint faraway window,
a cigarette siphons color from your lips
somewhere in the distance,
two birds kiss
poem 24.6.1
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