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CDs in the microwave are my stars.

My sun is a plate of isopropyl alcohol.

We dip our hands in the blue flame seconds at a time.

The moon is what it always was. A mirror where

I see myself hiding your razors, knives under my bed.

We thought we'd burned your passport, an offering

it was just pyromania and paper. A canyon of oligarchs

tears the sky to horizon. You didn't mean to be fragile.

I don't mean to cry. This is no time for pop songs no time

for imagining little violences watching the drugged teens

on HBO. Sometimes the only sound we hear is the ritual breaking;

conjuration of sometimes I stare at your mouth

and instead of flaming ions and lightning shorn tissue

you, so warm. I keep dancing, holding your hand. I feed you salt.

Stay unbroken. Stay unbroken as unbroken as endings and light

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