heart

Thirst is not a woman that never leaves her apartment.
Black and white films don’t make her mad.
She doesn’t dream of a spiderweb nursing the eyes of coyotes,
Nor does she catch raindrops with her shoes.
She is half dead. She despises lakes, fountains and rivers in disguise
And the silence of molten tea spoons with a satyr
That keeps fourteen knives in his heart.

 

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