Night trips

I slept against the moon’s womb. Curled in sweat and backbone. There’s no winter, just rain freezing in the sky as if to ward some nameless spirit away, I jingle my keys like an outstretched lantern. Leave the blind to their sticks – I’ll take the light and the way you look at me in the morning. I have stale breath, pit stains and hair a taxidermist couldn’t fix. Your fingertips, a hungry elk grazing along my jawline.

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