1.8
Apple trees in the forest of your thighs. Your knees touch
the skies. You blow your trumpet calling the dead out of their graves. With
both hands you push back the snow. You say you are building something. The
music dances from your lips and you bend and push. Forming something beautiful,
yes could it be. You ankles shout at the birds. They have seen you bound with
heavy twine, packaged for the road, a long journey. You say that we have
devalued this thing called love. The word no longer holds the same significance
in your heart that it once did. I find it funny that words can raise and fall
according to the whims of fashion. Unlikely to sell like lacy underwear, still
there is a market for such things. Capitalism swallows all.
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