The Magician

Don’t skimp on insurance. Here’s the reason.

An edited ghost swims up to the gate, raking its scalp with clothespegs for fingers.
“My hair’s gone crazy,” it says.

The chu-chi faced magus with hard bittern handstumps
rubs salt in your wound and then licks it all clean,
angels jerking through the middle eight.
The sign of Osiris slain? I should cocoa.

Dawns age. Call it physics. Here’s the reason.

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