THE BUNKERS
Those lovely years like the gin-soaked
floors of our rent-stabilized dream
remain as they fell,
having crushed whatever was made
in between.
I keep a crumpled trace of you sprawled
across the bed, which we kept holding
together with some glue
and nails, etching into a copper plate
the conjoined pain
of Chang and Eng–who, like us, lived life
in a bunker of glass
that, three stories up,
was constantly on display
as if for the world to watch us break.
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