connecting the dots in the sky
"is this a noble act, the torture of this boy?"
no music haunts my dreams.
instead, a silent movie
and the quiet beating of
a freshly harvested heart
the minute motions dutifully
sending near congealed blood
down the table
down the wooden leg
down to my lips
down to my tongue and beyond.
"to be sold as a sheep by my father, let it at least be my choosing."
iron, tart, and sharp:
let
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