07.21.2019

; young predator scenting
(your) sweat, wooden-bones, rigging & failures
(you’ll be ok) to leave & come back

there,
exposing faults, disillusionments
sloughing hopes & desires

to claim you skinned remains
wounded, somehow.
in the logbook: 

writing down the position of night
draws one half of sun, partly overcast: ⌓
— what is your wound?

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