in the between space I settle my
heart hands lips teeth
sore with knowing
poor skeleton
wrapped in flesh barely
from neck-spine to base of back,
the one who waits or the one who pauses?
in bags left over from my mother
but nothing fits, it
tries but
away or in or
eyes tight
eyes open.
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the ephemera’s chimera
close upon the ground occasion of
mottled and ragged parts
stitched in imago or winged form
lasting only for a dais
the little O, the earth—
happy horse—they are his
shards, and he theirs who
debase in the face of knowing
revenged upon thy charm, all fly
yet brows shall blush, have knit again and
fleet, bid them drowsy hums.
here you sty me, corporal sufferance—
he who speaks can no sooner
part young limbs and mystery
than night’s yawning peal
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