the clavicle, up

i retracted in/back & forth that night. like saloon doors keeping those out,
afraid of the after. reversing the air
to know its before.

this isn’t — what — it is.
this isn’t — what — it is.
this isn’t — what — it is.

to the extent that now i’m unfamiliar. angry at the wheel with my mother’s refrain. knowing,
that my shadowing days are over.

recollecting the taste of biting real pieces.
your Occipital Triangle, remembered.

where we held gentle mornings. and flanked colder nights. and the blue of your eyes weighed me heavy. asking why i left you, smiling.

i just want to get back there. pretending that my senses, now
are ambassadors of flight.

carrying only of the memories that created our concrete. laid soft and aligned.
where i signed my name before yours. in the stone so wet.

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