flute farm

we run out of silver & resort 
to making instruments out of our own bones.
you tell me there once was a little box
that would sing you "goodnight" & "goodmorning."
the power outlets shed their snakes. 
i ask you if you want to dance. it is night
& the tamborines are out. you do not want to go.
a dead fox lays at the front door. this means
we did not save our data. i remove him
& bury him underneath the ringing tree. 
i promised you last year i would look for portals.
instead, i ate every button. now the year is done. 

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