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The Flood of Mathis

After you were scratched by a statue
on the edge of your lip, 
the doctor found some plywood
and numbered the walls
with a blowtorch
each time you left
for the bathroom
or to get a glass of water.

Your legs would lay
against the cot
as though your feet were the end
of time & you giggled
when the curtains caught.

I sketched our phone call
on the mattress
in case the city was stormed
and it took the breath of your puma
to fog the lights
of the hovercraft.

Either way
the place is flooded.

The waves wash up
to hear you chant
the moon mantra
as your legs turn black
under the featherbed.

In the morning
we're another percent fiction
cuz I'll have gone
with the pasture girls
where the carpet ripples
like a pelican's jowl
and I know
the next 20 nites of sleep
are covered
in a mattress
of water.

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