to a tower of scorpions.
I waver in its grip
until your gown appears
in the window of
a neighboring lighthouse.
Our masks
and their wires with diamonds
have fallen to a valley of silk.
I walk around you
like the skirts
your shadows flare.
Billie Holiday sings in my veins
when you step so lightly
on autumn scales that suit you
in the rugged dark torn blue
by a relentless moon.
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