Meanwhile
I count
on the fringe,
the armored night,
the right shirt,
the reckless stain.
A drained look
from the barman.
I sense a shift
in the level white
of his eye. Grime
is a coat painted
in duress. Fearing
occasional thunder,
sloshing through
the bathwater
of a joyously
drunken voice,
its flailing soft
crust,
“Words without vision
are deprived of stability.”
Sand
His footing is light itself. A slim shepherd of wolves, his teeth are momentary lights that sting our eyes, excursions. His death rattle shapes the forest floor. A sudden hand splits timbers of oak. You are a worn-out film playing in my heart. When it is finally dark, the enchanted bodies begin to slip from between the cypress. I swell, bored with the same longing, the
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