Poem a Day for January 11

[skonen_blades]

I opened the zipper on the belly of the fish and took out wet money to pay the lobster with the dog mask behind the counter. He grunted, threw tiny sparks out of his eyes, and told all of my clothes to tighten. It wasn't my idea. Each leaf of my fingers became autumn blades in the wind. In the space of a divorce, I bloomed into a leech. Are the building builders building buildings? Heck yes. Just like the cinnamon you're licking off of my eyelids.



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