Chipped wooden floor, ghost bulb,
He had hands like butterflies.
How many bodies before?
Lots of distance in a tiny place. Crumble hands into a little biscuit shape, waiting. We want to lie on the bed in matching 'C' shapes, fallout shelters; pillar candles, blink the lights on and off.
What they don't.
Each thing gets packed; a boot, a ribbon, a scrap of cloth. "Portrait of a girl in glass," the party hanger-oners, the lace in her hand, the hummingbird sets out [city isn't the same
Wish we could sleep in the snow.
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