in cheap motel rooms

Shadow Hobbies

Somebody signing the motel registry

left-handed, someone

else pretending to be my dad or brother. The vodka

from my father’s boot

in the pocket of my jeans jacket.

Kneeling, a new kind of cardboard angel.

Bending, and falling

out of windows.

Here’s where the rupture in my ear

holes started, God’s dead music:

a piano playing underwater.

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