You forest so easily –
trying to block the sun – hand in your hat –
parts of flesh becoming magic –
a bag full of lungs thesis and fist
beside your feet.
Know this is my gift – to you
a cracked window pane – 30 below –
blizzard on the 13th million floor
in a T.V.-ish static living room.
And then once –
on a pre-wake Thursday morning
you come in –
take a bowl out of my cabinet –
pour yourself ice cubes
and leave a soak stain on my seat.
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