Thursday, June 13, 2019

Orange night, the thick locks
and curved bodies dancing.
Metallic tongues come in
from boundless electrocution
and tamper with the life of earth.
Things have lost their power;
the image of the saint is dead.
Sand on clay cusps
is tilting a microscopic camera.

Leaves touching frosted water
in the gravestone's tunnel.
Bones reaching with numbered cells
of yearning flesh.
Letters reflecting light and dancing
in the pallor of granite.
Broken shoulder dodge of waved grace
the snap of late straw
a wide open field
lines purring.

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