This worn Samsonite will not be savored
by guérillas in moonlight.
A week of lit ferns
took a pinch of kosher salt
to make a comfortable nest before the break
(in which a tomb-like quiet descended,
calming but for the most irascible eggs).
Carrying on without a handle
as best as I can with nary a hook or pincher,
I decry grey twill and welcome post-rage
somersaults as I add layer upon layer
of raw sugar (in-leaf), begging for
reprieve even as my legs push past
the buckle of freedom,
a little smashed but warm like carnival dirt.

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