the rats all scratch and gnaw.
Emergencies are always cresting,
the night so slow and cold.
Crisp cement all the way around,
lights like the bones of ghosts.
Tackled outside the infirmary,
limbs tangled in the other side
of the sweep of the sun.
Hands held to warm the moment,
hands clasped to heal the touch.
The tree of knowledge knows
no fruit in the stillest seasons,
only the succor of suspension,
the blushing idyll swinging
careless, all bite and blameless flesh.
The stars unimpressed by the gods’ vast
appetites stare as limbs reach and
hang, the serpent says
“Wake up.”
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