The Brittle Caretakers
Footfalls lick fog from the lodgepole
as violins sing orgasm praises against the wall.
Mossy altars sink sleeplessness.
All our clothes are in the freezer, rigid,
and wondering: why couldn’t we have been
the brittle caretakers of cannon bones?
Wrapping our spines together, melting
the fingernails off hoarfrost, and tightening
our tilted haunches homeward.
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