The concept of the small jacket

White in the manuever pockets full of pens.
What could it distinguish?

A burned out house,
whose charred glass still cuts
it leaves a soot scab,
waiting to be picked.

But in birth, each lining of lint
resembles the placenta.
A tether to the reality
of comfort, placed so readily
to the side, where the
milk stains hide in the balance.

Each jacket is alone,
Cuffed to the sleeve,
where the button meets the zippers,
the teeth are home here,
brushed back into the eye.

Hold on.
hold on,

we are almost home.

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