Friday, August 04, 2017

All Gifts

Picture wars are for sand, returned at daybreak to vapor under owls' eyes. Looking for stars gets you everywhere slowly. When our visitors arrive we will give them the seas. High in the midst of loss, our thin hands glow yellow in autumn light. The gaze of time, like some lazy god's arm-hairs, drifts in the break of desire. A broken black cup, unbroken before, unbroken again: our mobile refuge.

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