The Shape of Homology


rotten pumpkins on the porch are
thousands of light years and
miles away from
a time of plucking
peach pits
from my teeth

take cover from the wind,
or face the Duke's daughter with
grit in your teeth,
coated in astringent plaque

wherever your palms trek,
forked tounges will follow,
for you are a frozen mouse with
doors, but no roof to protect you from
red eyes falling like rain
from the sky

whispers whisk echoes to your door,
donning untied shoes and a relaxed
collar to greet your father on
the porch, under the timid light
of a revolver

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