poem: i think at this point

i think at this point

i am mostly depraved

and like a westward moth just barely

breathing through

the feathery lips, the science of all civilization

shall thicken under me.

so that i can break and call it

a delicate prestige, a privilege

of the girls with color-wine bottles hung from their

irises, hung from our eyelids like

trees in the wind.

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