like bejewled solitude,
a pen run out of ink and the cold slip of a missed-placed s,
hard as lust, a violin tremolo,
a clicking wound round my ear the massive growl
tight against my jaw--how the undead
measure God, stackable as glass,
know what it is to crave
a clicking, roaming thirst--
how in a room both whisper and hiss
search.
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