A dull passionless ache, blunt lips
bruise on the spines of a flightless
bird’s feathers. Already, the wax puddles
on the asphalt even though the sun
is still long shadows away. The fine
hairs hold nothing, no memory of a shiver,
no trail dissipating.  The distinctions lay
across the water, my hands lay at my side,
my body is hounded, treed. I am a beetle
fucking a magnolia.

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