touch the edges,
if it could stop somewhere
short of everything,
if it could
invest me less deeply
in the storms of thought
that never part from man,
then all time would break off
and I'd be worshipping a skeleton
with astral hands
already gone remembering your voice
with blades and blooming stages,
with tongues and envelopes
and only your glass fronds
my looming master,
raw paths of ice cracked stars
the firmament's first
hereafter.
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