The Cursed

No color in obscurity: purple felt writes
me in the summer, I don’t write because
I don’t know where to send the words.

My fingers, they try to make messages
with numbers and my brain freezes…
Language, no one understands. Wet.

Listen to taps on the rooftops–then
the wind picks up. We are remains
of something long torn-apart,

dissection left to rest, to find mortar
from energy exchanging between us.
Friction-driven, only glimmer left

that doesn’t need to be tested for acidity:
too much weight on my ribs—you keep
pulling at the sutures… There’s no fable

telling why it happens: every night after
five stars prick early evening skies, a ghost
who can’t remember its name appears

playing an ivory violin. If you don’t
bring it to bed with you, its skeleton
won’t let you sleep ten days straight…


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