Louise
He remembers her.
She was a denizen of dim cupboards;
Tiny chests where her telluric throes and chipped teeth
constellated the empty room’s eight corners
where her shoulders became leaden.
She gained momentum
by rolling her heart in a trench
and tossing it to the the morsels Love’s vulture jilted.
Now she—arcane and a shelved longueur
is an opaque scratch on
his deserted Polaroid,
curling in the fire.
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