These days I craft the forays of my ghosts
into the vessels of my hands. But the iron
rusts even in this dead river.
The nails are borrowed and when
the claim comes due I’m not sure
what will be left of this wooden sky.

I can’t remember the blood I was boiled in.

Desire is a vast wildness; how could a man
only wander in it for forty days. Does not the
wound of water scour a madman to purpose?




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