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Sarcophagus (2)

Kristi Maxwell

Night hawks its eye-time. What he looks like

because his computer commutes

my seeing. This is a fun time! I tell him

when the wind makeshifts a skirt around me

while a nighthawk adorns its talons

with mouse and crushes our simple idea of bulbs

now devious with their dangling light. He looks least.

The cat befriends cement—its fur furthers the distance

to flesh. That he is unlined as an autumn

jacket! Such might

I wear.

Kristi Maxwell

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