Shame, Shame
The weather
is titanium, clouds unbreakable,
the tops of
the evergreens cannot puncture through
the day’s armor.
The monotony of sleep and breath,
building up
like the scales of soap scum on
the brushed
nickel faucet. Everything can be made
into a guise
of protection. My words can move around
you as if to
keep you safe, but they are the horse
outside of
Troy, a mane made of driftwood and nails.
I am not
what I say, I am what is inside, a sword
that hungers
for so much undoing.
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