The morning is perfectly arranged
on gaping white circles:
soft silent eggs, the hues of strained smiles
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I’ve seen angel-dust sooner rust
‘neath the watchful gaze of starlight,—
Metal on metal scrapes the soundtrack to my parent’s cooking.
Our cold stone floor reflects the clash of dusty steam.
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I can only hope my reflection refracts. An image of
myself, untameable. There’s a portrait of my face
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I have left the window open
for you, the deer who lives
beneath my sill and inside
my dreams.
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