The floor folded, temporarily stacked
in messy piles.
Jekyll is back. Or maybe it’s Hyde,
I don’t remember much. But
he stood there in the water
low tide on the kitchen linoleum,
dueling blades held in his bloodied hands,
stirring the simmering air until
she returns.
He waits; his waist is warm
kidnapped by water.
Dystopian humor rides to his head
from his swollen palms.
She’ll come home every night
to not see that what he lacks
is faded like a watercolor.
He needs sun but what’s left
will evaporate.


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