cycles

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      when the world is done with me

we break into seven pieces, the sun and i

dip our toes in the milk of the eye of a hurricane

in our dark house overlooking the half-bathed sea

        with the moon frantic at our heels

drowning a thousand senseless deaths

    at the hands of a vengeful tide

    it chokes and churns to incompletion  

   all the while

my arm-piece like radio chatter

dismantled, wafts over the stove

reducing the heady broth to a steady

simmer

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