Under Sunday Fur Poem by Dylan KD.

Under Sunday Fur



With no malice to plant the jury of daggers
and no drones slanted under Sunday fur
and so, I throw the ghost into the hole full of lanterns
which opens up twice before it folds.

The drills speak with broken clones,
and claws retract in metal hills.
The drink is slow with blades and blood returned
to be displayed on liquid thrones.

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