The door never opened to enemies,
feather lining caught out all coming colds,
but fault lines have collected at the door;
the bitter clubs campaign for royalties,
tin sounds rip right through the roof of my mouth,
blindly buying myself out, feeling for the folds,
that tell me five from ten or twenty.
I hear clear crying that stops suddenly,
feather wings that beat against feather chests,
mouthfuls of praise for their good charity,
meanwhile I lick salt and wait for fresh hay,
If I don't move my boat from left to right,
If I sit still through the day and the night,
If I tuck my head into my shirt stay quiet,
maybe I can be light enough to cycle,
out along fault lines that should really crack.
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