The lights go out. Caring is a dim bulb.
We do it for profit, not so that anyone will read.
A careful hint ignites, electricity for ice.
She is on a separate plane. She is plain heading for trouble.
Pills are shrapnel, poking the inside walls, tearing.
A thought is a place, and any place is sacred.
But decisions have to be made, have to surface in the shallow
well of a throat, tiny plastic boats, precious cargo.
Your kiss is the harbor, but the lights went out.
Where is the lighthouse?
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