what God hath made?
Your glaze of hazel images
the angel glances in hurt smoke
that you have left unplanned
all wrapt in layered gauze
to be sifted?
Time will slay me at your feet
while the pines and birches
allay their frost to dawn
and carry me under.
The clock of breezes in your bangs
wafting me outward
has a wide
third hand and glistening eye
to the wink of costume wrought in blood
of which that womanhood is made
the braided cliffs
I climb to a braided mist.
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