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by: Getty Carver

eat my bones.

let their mildew flood you.

will it make your chaos flow?

will we writhe among the knotted, clumsy skin?

quivering in the forest of gnarled dreams,

with the moon of doomed futures glowing over us?

It has a hood.

your pebble, oil slicked, like a scab

dragging my tongue across its teeth,

opening my cavity,

which yearns to be filled with rockslide avalanche.

But dried memories lay flaccid

and shuddering in the dark.