Sweet heart sister.
Screech.
You’re the scent
of burnt rubber.
An interstate skid
in search of the right font.
Calligraphy brother.
In your memory:
I build a pile of socks
atop a chair that rolls.
I build dust on the sill
of unread books.
Death is the format that shimmers
this Journey.
I build a watery collection
down bottom.
Fermenting sludge
down bottom.
I build dank Pharos’ chambers
from a cast-iron
skillet.
Build
Mountaintops of body parts-
pasted together
like rice crispy snacks.
And that’s the anthropology of a bird-feeder.
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