the melancholy of that first non-baby
The eyes bring back nothing. Ballplayers trade suicides as the high diver’s ghost makes a bed of still breathing condoms. A word you can read creates a word you can’t. A swimmer on a hunger strike breastfeeds beneath a tornado in a play about a weeping oven and piano that can’t hear footsteps. I test my brief mouth.
It says.
kingsoftrain 
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