all of the writers are gone
blown to smithereens, or tied up in
bed. they left us notes
told us not to come looking
they would be hidden
in soft caresses and silken blindfolds
the handcuffs with easy-releases
they would be tied to beds
and wake up with soft fingers on their clavicles.
so the last words ever written
amounted to
"don't call me;
i'll call you."
and the poetry under our eyelids
disappeared into aqueous humor.
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