I
one day—
a bolt
gleaming
about; the mood never seems
pure but
Christ
my hands
itch to run
over this
skin
II
the way my eyes
are thieves
is lovely:
they keep my fingers
at bay—
they are tethered,
bound by my gazes,
fantasies, thickness
III
thick
stretched
worn and constricting
does this mean pure?
does pure
mean pure?
IV
up & out, over
through—my eyes
are demons, running
through—
through and through
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