remaining bone poems, then some new
Ethmoid
you are pithy and porous
she is glistening and hard
a red feather in your cap
pompous boy playing at what?
a deviation to dip in the septum
creation of lateral masses, better yet
labyrinths
which wind and create circular masses on my belly
you trace with the tip top of a tongue
yet these are mind games played
out on paper with inked up letters
smudge proof I am hoping
so they can reach farther than me.
I remain here, lying on my side
light and spongy, maybe cubical in shape
I will slide through
Portions of all—
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