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next to the dresser i counted one of many minutes.      a metastasis to twenty and i took it to memory      her body not even the slightest resistance.    after bathing when feet barely dried       leaves pools, like an admission of something. i still have next to the sink, a shabby portrait.      unsheathed its silence, hung by the gate      by the neighboor as you confessed one      April afternoon, the heat so tense erasing lush as a tree is a palimpsest          now aged, wind reentering a distance      like i imagine your hand in my denim.      spaces in between bury a pattern of insistence.   carefully extolled when i pass by the lit TV       wasting its voice to no audience,   when we crawled from one room to another        leaving words inside dungeons of mouths     and when a tongue broke loose, maneuvering       across a tablature is music of creaking wood       and time-worn hinge - the accidental thump      on the bedpost softly sings               a punishment: now an urge to go back      yet not knowing which door to enter,            every surrounding object as witness,       memorized a minute's completion,   refusing to map out which way to go.
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May 13, 2016
May 13, 2016 at 3:41 AM UTC
Urges
next to the dresser i counted one of many minutes.      a metastasis to twenty and i took it to memory      her body not even the slightest resistance.    after bathing when feet barely dried       leaves pools, like an admission of something. i still have next to the sink, a shabby portrait.      unsheathed its silence, hung by the gate      by the neighboor as you confessed one      April afternoon, the heat so tense erasing lush as a tree is a palimpsest          now aged, wind reentering a distance      like i imagine your hand in my denim.      spaces in between bury a pattern of insistence.   carefully extolled when i pass by the lit TV       wasting its voice to no audience,   when we crawled from one room to another        leaving words inside dungeons of mouths     and when a tongue broke loose, maneuvering       across a tablature is music of creaking wood       and time-worn hinge - the accidental thump      on the bedpost softly sings               a punishment: now an urge to go back      yet not knowing which door to enter,            every surrounding object as witness,       memorized a minute's completion,   refusing to map out which way to go.
windsor-i-guadalupe-jr
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May 13, 2016
May 13, 2016 at 3:41 AM UTC
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