by Ariella Ruth
howler dear
it could be wilt
metal that hangs
in center beats
that aren’t purple but harm
small hairs on insides
of your ears never
can be bent up straight
again the flowers
turn south to face
browning water open
their small mouths
to cherry wood i bought
you because no one
would
not buy
you i mean but give
to me it snows
on you the hills
on dullness beat
drums
howler beat
my ear
drums
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