No matter what word I cut into the paper, the

blood is not indelible. You would think it sinister
how the tempest refuses the midden. I stand
and sway, eyes closed against the grit. Hand
in hand with an awl I draw desire against the days
that do not fold themselves away. This dust that
settles into the open drawers coats the yellow
flowers of the paper you lined them with, a
desert advancing. The sand always sinks to the
bottom and the fines will be levied for the
proper transgressions.






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