Sunday, February 23, 2020

Looks like a moth
got painted into this one.
Obelisks lined up
around the block.
The leaning chairs
of willing bodies
becoming the spiritual life
manifest in ferns.

Torn stones that speak
to a low wind.
Shrine that hugs the earth
past a nest of bark
the horizon's chain
of breasts and wombs
ticking solemn fruit's perpetuum
lacquered fist of dust.

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