I miss you, late summer storms, your refreshing albeit anticipated violence,
like the creeping up of ennui, the muffled build-up of orgasms. Like facing
the brutality of their scents: coal and pepper. I miss you too, wire hangers,
wound tight around flesh, how you hold together and up high what no longer is. I miss you, keyholes
of all the houses I’ve ever rented, your promises of solitude. And you, silent slits of
the waving of long ochre blades, how they slant in unison and when they part, what’s born of the dark.
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