Grass strands through hands of glass,
the passing hours and the turning page.

In this age of scars, we confine
our wonder to the curb.

The blood sheets rattle the fire
and conspire to settle down to sleep.

For now, we keep promises.
But what promise will ever keep us?

cradled in the warble of the slivered sun
with running sinuses and cyanide lust.

The nearly neutered dead
offer their stares to the dark.

-r. miller

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