The pages cling to each other,
metal teeth
tearing manuscripts in straight
lines while the poets rest
in the corner, finger painting
on each other's faces, eyes
drawn in henna on
the palms of their hands.
The ceiling melts
into sky, a woman
with clouds in her veins plucking
secrets from the stars,
threading them to hang
in every window, moths
thinking all light is the sun,
fluttering, clogging
the night air like ash, grasping
with many weak arms as torn paper
covers the floor.
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