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Day 8:
We smile at each other
and I lean back against the wicker couch.
How does it feel to be dead? I say.
You tough my knees with your blue fingers..
And when you open your mouth,
a ball of yellow light falls to the floor
and burns a hole through it.


Day 9:
Death, Bobby, hit me
like the flat of a hand.
Imagine you are made of crystal
and someone ice picks you
and you shatter,
all your cells coming
almost to despair
it is so good.


Day 10:
Now when he hears the sound of voices,
he growls, covers the bones quickly
and hides beneath the burned-out shell of a car
until they fade
like all the voices that once made us family,
but could not save us from our destiny.


Day 11:
Come on, baby, lay me down on my back.
Pretend you don't owe me a thing
and maybe we'll roll out of here,
leaving the past stacked up behind us;
old newspapers nobody's ever got to read again.


Day 12:
I enter your room,with my purple face moist from excitement.
The black straw basket I carry
in my yellow arms cracks softly,
in tune with the brittle snap of my blue legs,
as I sneak to your bed.


Day 13:
Beside the river, I stop the wagon,
loaded with the plague dead
and have a drink.
I fill my mouth and swallow slowly,
then climb back into my seat.
The old horse drops one turd, another.
Corpses, I give you these flowers.


Day 14:
I move off toward the street.
My feet press down in it,
familiar with the hot soft asphalt
that caresses them.
The sun slips down into its cradle behind the mountains
and it is hot, hotter than ever
and I like it.
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