by Manuel Arturo Abreu
two scotch-tape birds sit on a cigarette butt
two reptilians walk past the birds
two windows open and say ‘huzzah’
two clairvoyants will never admit to wanting to die young
two drops of sleep in between my fingers
two days who are also sisters
two people buying pizza and dousing it in ranch
two centipedes too shy to hold hands
two former lovers who got lost on the phone
two atoms who can’t help but always feel nauseous