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Still Blinking III
First, remove the eyelids—
they hold too much fiberglass.
Grind streetlight into gunpowder,
cut it with gravel—snort the cocaine dusk.
Take the sidewalk like heretic communion,
metal-flake wine, asphalt host.
She blinks razors.
Stars break in her clavicle.
You don’t touch her—you calibrate.
Banana fingers, bruised and humming,
plucking vapor off the fencepost.
Storm-laced teeth.
Voice as hinge,
breath as cordless vacuum
throat tightrope over a cheap
motel dirty sink.
We lit the penguin rodeo in her Glacial ribcage.
Called the roots collect.
Spoke in wire glyphs.
The cancer slept in our gums,
soft, radiant.
I opened her chest
found an IPhone
still blinking,
still ringing,
with no one left to answer.
Copyright ©
Josh Moore South Dakota
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