The Blood-letters
--incarnadine pricks—
pass like a fever,
sticking a trail from nape
to crescent hips
eclipsed by lace.
Battle stole my brother.
Battle saved my marriage.
Luck stuck in blood letters
sealed and censored
between two shades
of incessant tries.
On like a dress--
mein Liebe,
wie schlaefst du nachts?
--unsupportive dress caught
between my legs
like dreams and thieves.
Mein Liebe,
I sleep like a ruin.
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