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Broken Images

Secrets furled into silvery webs 

of an iris. How long are we going to keep

cutting this thickness with an axe?

Our heartbeats stomp wildly on

tenuous string. It won’t be long before 

the string snaps into

sperm writhing on the cold hard floor. 

I know you know. Your fingernails

give you away. You should cut them

if you don’t want the others to know. 

I chop off my bangs when I don’t want to

read about the meaning of life. (Sometimes, it’s better not to know.)

In the woods, I hurled all the words hanging between my teeth

into the fire. Smokey Bear, don’t you dare say it’s up to me. 

It’s haunting— the twinkling sounds of the rolling brooks

in the heat of this storm the meteorologist predicts

sunny skies for days.

I’m praying for rain.