Breadcrumb #118


Move out to the country
And starve to field noises behind closed doors
This cleric’s mission is for all of us
Though your heart left while being plucked too dearly 

If Fate allowed so much as this
Separate her fingers
and paint with them in your hungriest terms

As our napes further erode
I realize I’ve seen too much of your face
And broken some earthen code
My job is almost done: I, cartographer
Linking incandescent corners
half-meaningfully pecking, then staying for a while 

Tonight was like that other one
All birdsongs and coffee-stained Easter bread
Taking turns catching onto something scarred and molten
Glancing at each other's necks and meaning to ask. 

Fewer see that they were bound before in these countless poses
We watched carefully and gave them new names: 

My Spectral Hand
Your Lunar Coo
Between animal and artisan
The nest was built and difference due

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