After two hours of burning, I get dressed
and smoke.
Past the mirror
where your eyebrows push together
and are deflected upwards like opposing magnets.
Wooden-toed, tired;
sun like a showerhead,
shoe-filled bed.
Cut, cut, cut.
The bright dust has left no company
but doors in parallel lines,
benign nurses.
I crave curves and blurs,
examine my fingernails.
Tomorrow in six hours;
tonight was bad like a fruit.
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