In an open area, kneel with your hands on the ground, and your head low
In the evening when the humidity is highest
and the sun bares its teeth and grins and jingles
just before it falls
And my belly bares its teeth against the feeling
of a falling stone
And I'm breaming my belly at the bar
where my heart is a bottled ship
No way to get out, it was built in there.

Normal tissue does not grow back after a large wound.
This is why we made the word scar, this is why we made
argentation, why we line things with silver,
why we remember in pieces
so we can build with our stitches.

Scar tissue has grains like sand,
like sugar, like salt.
It's made of something older than the rest of us,
knows words we don't remember,
but forgets some like feel.

I have no time for him anymore,
but there is space there
gray and clank and empty.

Lighting struck a sand heart, left a jagged line
of dark glass from top to bottom,
and the sand then fell away.

Harden me and mine, harden my heart.
Etch initials into dark glass with diamend test
purity. Take me high from cement and phone poles,
the amber rooms and staceato lows
where sweating glass fills bellies amber
and lulls you to sleep where night falls in a city,
where the warm rooms are so high
and lonely glass casts a dozen of you back
and the walls are too slick for climbing.

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