in pixilated skies,
through the long reeds
and the silk torn
on a line for drying,
the articulate breezes surge
in like competing oceans,
through the handiwork of a moment
torn loose into the void
the fog is eclipsing us.
When we met in aisles of cloth
or shelves of reels and cylinders
strangers to the language of our birth
rediscovering rapture,
the linked fires of much mapped galaxies
hurtling across our fond marquee
and seeds of structured fate cast aside
were in our unreached recesses
brewing alien bones.
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