muscle memory
in the deepest part between
skin and shoulder blade
is an orb of pulsing vexations
a place where my spine is a streetlamp
and a blade sound rings dully
from days of scaling train tracks
up pretty girls’ sleeves
I know this place like I know
my forearms traced once in gesture
and again in tissue
it is the tangled bower of hair
falling out through my fingers
built by so many lovers
their trinkets left in parting
Drowning blissfully into this lattice
until a trigger hits, I come up gasping
for air with clasped souvenirs
of clogged storm drain debris
to exchange for a birdsong
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