by Shannon Quinn
I trade you small pot of light
for key that sticks in door.
Our worst nights, coin toss
burn house or bed down.
Wool-drunk moths in sock drawer
judge our quiet violence and dime-bag sentiment
but then we have an early evening
you mostly sober, me mostly clean
thinking of every possible animal afterlife.
Prescription sleeping pills smuggle
us into sleep, where we are strangers.
Cross the street to avoid each other.
Drowning girl can’t climb
on another body, call it shore.
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