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Slash & Burn

by Brad Rose

  • The days, delicate, lost,
  • all of August, an empty room.
  • I realize you are your leaving.
  • Nothing on the horizon,
  • but the sea dreaming flames.
  • You take the law into your hands.
  • Scissors’ hungry blade
  • etching a precise line, like fire ants,
  • below your moon-white sleeve.
  • Brain and book,
  • mouth and vein,
  • you invented you,
  • you will un-invent you.
  • House of names,
  • bay of bones,
  • whatever burns naturally
  • is fuel.


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