In yellow pants the newspaper Courtney reads, the sky the color
of mine We sweat to dissipate the sure empire of knowledge
as the night cigarettes have made my eyes heavy
These daily nuptials braiding air to bone or lost amidst
the agony of suspended flesh The television puts forth its phenomenology
of nuclear hands I want to kiss you while the phone rings
but you are the one calling Punching voices braiding the ends
to celebrate the middle, the already changing romance
bereft of intelligence and in that we punctuated the sighs with air
Manning our nation’s boredom murder, comedy
getting drunk keeps happening in words
Outwardly, the pressures tricking us into flight Heroic weaknesses
cornering the brain which was itself a version of blank
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