X marks the spotTony Mancus
O how I’ve lived in the shadowbox of forms. Kept my rose-chest neat and ordered, full of horns. Their mocking notes slide around inside there. Rocking boats dive into the water, driven out from the reaches of a pebble-shore, right into a muck-walkway. The light is never confused. It clips the box I carry in two— lifted away by the glass and tilted back into it, half- swallowed, illiterate.
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