We made our eyes windowframes. Waited
for the light to bend corners. While
it inched through fine palm line cracks--

And we never noticed. Except
sometimes, the flashes held our eyes and shook them
with something close to love.
The avalanche of a spine.
Stained-glass leaves, burning alive.
Water on white wings ascending--

Blinked to death like gnats.

For what were we then,
you and I
but spiders fastened to our loneliness?

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