​Time is thick as glass,
lays dirty across memories;
they are speckled grayish
things, a twice-blinked sight,
little instants lost between
our eyelashes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


December sky, pebbles, dirty
water, cold breath, blackened snow.

Bare branches, stinging holiday
smoke, the gray smell in my hair.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They are silver fish in a steely,
sloshing ocean, located
between the ribs, the text of
wet newspaper pages.

 

 

 

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