Native paint:

A hawkers gaze,

Our palms caught in the wire.

Stains so cold, so quick to space

From love, and from desire.

“You take your pick,

I’ll take mine.” This happens

Some of the time.

As the flesh twists,

It’s barred onto time,

From the gashes flows dahlia wine.

Of the moments you could leave;

Your hand is caught in mine.

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