Pulse

I’ve made a lifestyle of pushing my teeth-

In artistic clay and picking at their roots.

To me these are corroded apartments

With coffee stained windows

And pale white ledges

Which segregates the gargoyles

From communication

For the purpose of entropy.

And as I press my tongue

Against its brick gray, astringent idioms

I feel their palms like white droplets

Deject my finger tips…

Because the Earth will never stop.

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