We slog through rainy days
that yawn before us.

No one calls us boring
things and gets away with it.

Welcome to our doll shed,
our cave cutaway, the flat

where we lead silhouette lives.
Our shadow puppet nights

give way to rumors
of sunrises nearly visible

through hole punch clouds
as we jet across the sky,

empty punted Champagne bottles
rolling along the cabin floor.

We don’t remember how
to capture those bubbles

or why we let them go—only
that we must yield to bridges

as they beckon us
to cross at our own risk.

To embrace collapse
is a conundrum

best solved at 1:18 scale.

We will find a tiny vintage airstream
to ruin another perfectly good Saturday

before digging our fingers and toes deep into the wrack line upon arrival.

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