We lay on your bed, the ends from a
hunk of wood shaped into a bowl and
shipped overseas. Shattered sunlight
broke the winter morning
and made shapes on the ceiling.
Before, we went out on a root
windy night. The city was empty, save our
streetlight sentries and their halos of
gold suicide spattered on the sidewalks.
We held hands and sang soft
lullabies to the sleeping concrete.
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