nothing is like me, but the sun
burning coldly; an afternoon spent
in despondent silence, a brilliant curse
muttered in the beginning of the bed.
of course, i remember everything with audacious colour
and i think i climbed over you to get to the place
where no one else...
in some field where i love and kill,
i bury my hands in dirt.
there is nothing to say but so much to feel.
the sunflowers lower their holyheavy heads
with me, in pretty mimicry.
so full of swifts [watch now]
and crows [believe now]
i could fall into...
we kept music for the moon
and the dandelions raved with mercy as we spoke;
i could hear you from any existence, any earth.
the roses would open and drop their knives,
we would pull them to our breasts and let them dream
how old can a heart beat?
mine is two hundred years
i die unrisen, iron cold
and i want to feel illicitly warm; your voice
and yet the wide death is a prairie, where my fingertips touch
blades and locusts feed on the explorer
in her abandoned skin, every
little thing you ever...
morning. black, bird
on the bones of a beast, like hips or roses
and i have not yet beaten my body into that smell.
the drunken of sweet
token of a wrist.
small: spill your dark life there.
for the despot girl in between
where your tongue takes bereavement.....
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