• Typhoon under the bridge


    the bamboo rows rickety, us arranging
    for a bath and the text of ash on the skin between fingers.

    Ash veins before the foam, your mother said
    smuggling an ember in, will & testament inert
    for tapers to uncover. So smoothly to prick heat

    with advanced medical facilities but blocks away, the whites
    of plastic alone, some sinewy and others solid, prefabs
    a backboard with waivers, practitioners.

    Under the star dots she lathered
    repellent in swirls, on both your calves. Justice hates that antiseptic

    smell bringing her to eels wet in large porcelain. “Not that
    hand me rock salt. Rub onto skin, like so. Kindly, put

    pressure.” How those kids tell one from the other

    what stands for something, or against
    with a readiness to hurt you / Dwell, a while longer.


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