Slow loops the wounded breast.
His coming was heralded
in the petrified eyes
of the disconsolate lover.
Blubbers to imagine he on walks.
Odious mutterings from the blood cafe.
A new nomenclature drips.
He moved his hands
like they were curtains.
The air felt like cold saliva
on the rim of a glass.
I gave him a pass. The atrophy
we’d waited one time tense
and swallowing the moon.
Scratch marked velour doorway
widening, the spoon of land
veering away. How the spangled years
keep offering no glimpse of gallows.
Two days no smokey.
The green clouds, billowing.

-r. miller

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