Morning
This is the stroll that makes you the man.
You who abandoned the drapes of her window,
left hung shut and velvet
between leftover stars and the scars of her naked spine-
where you emerged from her bed,
found silence in the shadows,
gathered sweat-stained wardrobe on inside elbows,
the sun rising overhead—
This is not a tender goodbye.
At most, its overgrown toenail tearing sock holes,
a cold tile tip-toe, a door closed
behind your belt-buckle-stumble
out into the leaning streets—at least
you have the city to pretend
its walking you home
with your tuft of chest hair heaving,
her last conversation, fleeing—
arms of wire lacerating
through the shapes you make by breathing.
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Editorial Assistant: Emily Bartran/Editor: Bryonie Wise
Photo: elephant archives
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