A spider on an old man’s
beard is like you in your
tangled web of lies. Love
is to open sky as loathing

is to bloody knives. The fog
plumed through the gunshot
holes in the train windows—
your eyes went through

the collar of my shirt. “No, no,
a thousand times no,” I said,
as your finger choked my
desires. I held my own life in

my hands, a grenade with
the pin removed. The oars
on your boat rowed as
if there was no tomorrow

left in our sky. Puffy clouds
in your glass of wine are
fields of gray in your tiny
eyes as you flee my scene.


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