Saturday, and the sun is out.
you’re licking the salt from the crest
on the underside of my elbow
and asking
where I would like to live
next as I am pretending I
am unchained, and beginning
the slow fall to
when I hear my name reflected
back I melt, I’m stone
mostly until I’m just a cloud
of maniac.

I am begging you to walk
away, being wrong about
the others but dead right
about this.
you love being right.
now dead right.

sarah, we are begging you
to run away from this.

“Post Mortem”

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