Well, if we’re stuck

with each other,

and our lips

wake tingling

for another

nail, maybe

rearranging

the cushions

of our coffin

would elevate

the mood,

our fingers

could stitch

a failproof

patch, our

talk better

than any glass

of water.

Our mouths

could cross

burning fields

to abate

the stinging,

we could

reciprocate

until the

worst passes,

our lungs

vacuumed

clean of ash,

cancer’s

last gasp.

KALEB WORST

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