"Quincunx
If this is all, quit your hold.
Bury your imprint far
from me. No more writhing,
my slivered sun.
All that touching was witchcraft. Still,
at the crux I remember sharply
god's hand at every turn
and the saltiness of donning you
in a room without law.
Two fires that cannot yoke.
How damn starry it is
every time you strobe near--"
--Hanae Jonas in CutBank
"bloodshot eyes
this ancient pine tree
an ice cream truck"
--@poemexe.com
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