This. This is how it happens.

I. Your coin eyes
necessary removal for transportation, subway of souls, smiles like tattooed eyebrows,
darling, magma taxes the best of us,
and I swear there’s a limit on your lungs.
Sugarcane eyelashes.
Google keeps asking if I know you.

II. People thought wars would end through a war

III. I thought writing about you would end by writing about you. Slick specter.
Hair grease and denim heart.

IV. Dreams dig trenches with toothpicks.
Clanging question marks.
People with fooled nails.
Me with these empty wrists.

V. I stock bookstores with glass for a living.
I paint you on the white edges between windows;
peach water coiled straws cold hair pink socks heavy-framed wings

Tell me you see a wider scrape of sound waves,
echoes sword-fighting, murderous unsaid

VI. Your coin eyes
I’m afraid it means you’re dead


3 thoughts on “This. This is how it happens.”

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