A burning as the burning of choice has its center.

city of days

I am headed to the northwest side of the cityside. The side of the city least felt, fibrous. A folder of bones sewing my city. A folder of gravel. A folder of clay. A burning as the burning of choice has its center. It checked off, chosen, called on to sing.

Sing The Prayer, sang Dawn, hooking
the needle. The sun on the harp & bright stringy
cleavage.

City I’d have whipped up chili to be in. I’d have sat on a futon all nightfalls long. Penumbra of exits linking my city, rehearsals of facts, turgid discourse. Chewing the meat of a chickenbone cursor. I click at the chains. Anchor my city.

We sing/sang Hallelujah. We drive droves thru.

Days driving drivel will it rain today days. On the hinges, the hydraulics, in & out bound. On the top floor of an already broken-in home.

I ratchet, ratchet.

Do dishes in my bra. On the first day of the rest of our lives. I do sing Hallelujah. Glory.

The look I am looking. Fishy.

 

 

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