Aureole curves Folded

over until touching

themselves up Between

the legs Want fold

upon fold "how

infinitesimal I am

the repertoire of her

seated Widely placed

knees A throne

holding him Integral


of his own seclusion I know

it's heavy handed Each time

I tap the moon Fistful

of ash That we should

burn The longer more

oblique arm of light

Trapped silhouettes Glass trees

lining His voice

tires of its own Subjectivity

                 Fingering the moon imagining her Imagining me

but the places we omit

are the ones

through which we move

the most slowly

                 A small ship sails on a backwards current

it is direction which will dominate

of all the tones of yellow and green




simply   bodice   stiffened   Radiance

Tincture   Lustre    Moon    shedding

the  diminutive  body   The crescent

hounding Down the dawn Thrown

Scattered Breathless Verdure o Ember

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