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I am not locked up, I am the lock.

I am keeping a secret with myself

for myself,

clutching it within like a bird’s claw,

the carrier pigeons have been shot,

guess I forgot to warn the men with rifles,

suppose it wasn’t a clay pigeon after all.

My mouth is a gold crested envelope,

my lips are licked with wax:

they are an inked kiss,

the pout is the stamp,

my mind is the scroll:

bound and bound,


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