unicorn code
God makes a tiny phone then waits for it to die and we never hear from god again
If there is in my poem white space then I wasn’t drinking
My mother’s sadness is distracting to photos
Surgery means I am the only one who can position my son’s body not you not the fatherhand of god’s anti-touch
I was writing toward The Rose by Ariana Reines when the grief lightning of an unfound vein went bluely afield
They’re back, the bombed, their thenlife
kingsoftrain 
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