wind bubbles on tin
slate, through
the sky
a damp piston.
out the window
close up snaps
my face, against
the netting.
cold air, hit it!
lop lip it.
ledge height
guide moths to wind
tight.
to build, i suppose
an oak, an oboe, where they come
to eat my clothes.
while the curtains rot,
my tongue does
dry,
doze.
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