Cedar Box Prisoners

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Cedar box prisoners. We've become vacant, flat—two right hands

one figure. The tape on our wrist is yellowed, cracking

the tears are apparent, or will be

when exiting this pocket

& finally lifting the cover—(Yes, daylight will enable

the getting used to.) The stench

of cedar will shift too. Preservation

into growth, this coffin into flames—My sketched heart will catch beat

& your bleached skin will pinken yet, we'll breathe again, after.

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