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  • my grief is the Marianas trench, cerulean, six miles deep.
    it is a broken chair tossed on the crackled asphalt shoulder,
    a rusted skulk that unzips my skin and enters from behind,
    disgrace disguised as trumpets or blown in bright balloons of day.
    I am holed up in this louche place, bedecked cube of despair,
    under my desk, knife blade scoring the commercial carpet, my arms.
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