In concrete blocks;
 I’ll enclose you, encase you
 harden with my fingers around your soft flesh,
 and bite the bitter parts of your aesthetic.

Twists and turns of your
 amalgams settling in for the season;
 isn’t it soft torture,
 to bleed like this;

The crow in the flesh,
 within a world of sin, unbroken,
 the green, crisp flavor
 of Summer.

And her gravity foretold to me,
 I watch for her,
 the Queen of Detritus,
 we wet our mouths and say,
 “towards a perfect, bright lit moon.”

It differs long enough to quench this last unsettling start.

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