on the electrified hillsides,
waiting for you.
Draw myself
tight as a drum,
ready to resound and
touching nothing.
Pretty as glassy embers
put to bed on ash,
resonant as
a whole choir of females
in your solitary breathing,
you pass me by like the light
on a bale of hay, again and again.
Your circuitry is the moat
that protects without armor
these fences painted
with my patient blood
in the shadow of your perfect longing
where I will go like scattered rice
or be cast aside.
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