Between your two weakest fingers
Between your two weakest fingers the quarter slips, your wish drowning half in moonlight half held down by your arm –you’ve got an hour in a meter clogged with ancient lakes and marrow with wings seeping through the altitude where north stays stranded in your bones juts from the curb and a little water for your heart –with the first handshake you will forget again, your wrist towed from beside some motionless glass filled where nothing else is thirsty. Wild Transitions...
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