WEATHER REPORT
Not everyone is legible:
spider syndicate, lace fences
hung for borders where wires
cross and heal. A hanger
for a hand, a healer. Which
wires cross? One is lost
among the ruins
of arcades and alleys
pretending threads
and glue make bottleships.
No letters bind
him to a mother's mast.
The belly is a bone
to heal. Take one
thing from her
and she becomes a house:
a loaded gun come mended.
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