She hides there in
her transparent skin,
that open glass robe
with her veins showing,
those eyes peeled lidless
like oranges—

lying, lying again
about everything she is.

The costumes of the air
will knock you flat.
The wind is jousting myths.

And it’s a sin to sour.

Just one more hour
folded on your reflection,
your back to the bathroom door,

and you’ll miss
everything you’d never guess:

the last bus to the shore,
say, where you could steep
the ocean with such flavor—

then that low, slow
star that would kiss
you, lover, best,
till the sky breathes the name
you’d yet to uncover,

didn’t know you expected—
on your lips, then all over.





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