doors. One to keep open,
the other to keep us out.
This place is private
like a dream about a bull
who kills you every night,
the floor sticky with blood
and love.
Beneath this house, root
and rot grown up into the walls
like children who come
loud, unbidden
at a funeral
or his ribs twisting, cracking
around his crumbling
plaster heart.
he said this is our waiting
room, our names carved
on the inside of our mouths
like secrets.
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