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A Quiet Night…
Beyond the daggers of sheets
a rib-cage of serpent dwelling will fall.
The breath of thighs will cross stitch
faster than a factory of sewing machine gunners.
Gristle will sweat from bones
splitting envelopes into quakes of sucking.
Hackneyed lips will rest along ridges of musk
as lonely beliefs crumble.
Copyright © James Cornish.