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Poems

Blood on the Mare

are my nerves cracking apart?

you claim the stars are burning

make me muse

well they aren’t…

my point is moot

organic polymers

elastic ethereal

all bottled up

hydrocarbons, resins, alcohols

eating my facial expression

inside and out

blue-gray alloy

why can’t it be warm?

I’d curse your scorching surface

superficial touch

it isn’t much

I hummed to the thought

of your pasteboard mask