It's Molly
talking to me
from the deepest gash
in the bottom of the Pacific Ocean.
The a. m. radio station static
and muted trombone hum
make the words opaque
to my tired ears.
What are you saying?
It has to be you
because I'm afraid of everyone else
in my skull.
I saw the diagram
of the severed dog's head
and your distant cycle
deep in the earth's magnet
bobbed on the surface
of my lake's memory.
What are you saying?
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