when you play with history,
things get rough.
after rolling around
on this thick and bristling carpet,
your knees look like scoops
of pink ice cream.
they melt. they collapse under
the great weight of time.
I stare hard at the wall.
the cracks turn into faces,
the moulding into outstretched arms.
those bones keep our roof
aloft. if this were a house of God,
all the floorboards would be shining.
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