I
have book lungs for your knives
I circle on the thinnest trap line
Gaze eight times before brunch
Upon the desiccated casts I left behind
Awaiting meals like
An antsy kid for a campfire ghost
Regrettably, this silky web
I wish would lasso a rose-haired sunset
Snags
only
shriveled
dried shades
and pests
each
night.
But it will be mine,
someday.
Originally appeared in BARROW, 2009.
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