there's a box full of paints
slid low 'neath your desk
like sex toys for the soul
it's been so long
you fear your bones
won't know
how to crawl out and shake--
dance drip-drop thanks
for such wet joy
such blaze
but they will--
bones don't die when they're
box-rot dry
they just wait
for your touch
to reach down
and wake them
up
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