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.
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