double-crossed by my own insides,
a walking menarche,
when all I want
are white gloves to pick out the shrapnel,
wipe the ash from my thighs,
underneath a sunhat and sudden ennui:
observe the flowers coughing clots
and I look your way without
wincing or
running this time.

murmurs of missiles finally finding each other
rub sheet metal,
repaint the sky
but down here our palms touch
without incident
for awhile.

“asylum”

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