thin on rice paper skeletons
left in collecting jars,
Still fly past.
They await me, each nerve
a stroke of misplaced flourish,
Each artery beneath hard temples
pounding, pouring lines
like streams of water,
forcing through me,
and I am transparent.
Rushing through my filthy hands,
Ripping past the ragged spots, damned,
They wield pearls of light, lanterns
in liquid trickle- to another world.
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