Fetal Bristles

on

Maybe the outline
Of a buzz cut
belonged in a closet
not a clothesline

maybe i
should never write girls poetry

never should
stroke wet paint up the slope of their spines

crisscross chestnut eyes
into star-fire bites

flashing selfies past my skin
and into my granite mind
with pale teeth and a flipflop soggy soul,
a refrain that loops at the wrinkles in your faith

-rht-

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