by Michael Fitzgerald-Clarke
Your cleavage, love, in my pocket.
Your sighs, love, on your back
while the sixteen black fingers
cut me
rent me
made me
into a higher form—
Thus,
the train to Manhattan. Equally,
before our sight, we struggle with
a pinkness of apocalypse,
a tweaked crimson
that becomes our windows,
blows us to silence.
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