The Cursed

Through setting suns or surrounding
yourself with copper for spiritual
conductivity, there’s no clear

difference. It’s seven a.m., my head’s
filling too loudly, heart’s still beating
the same. When it’s not skipping,

it’s sunken, deflated vessel fashioned
from ribs. The sentiment doesn’t age,
but the intention does, still, there’s

starlight reflecting in the lake. Phantom
heartache leaps, and leaps again, listen
to taps on the rooftops–then the wind picks

up. We are remains of something long
. 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—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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