tents of wheat
and piles of dust,
in the shadow's
faint geometry of giggles
where the wild play of spirits
finds its puppet sheen,
gold glowing
on descriptive wires.
If we were mated
in the painted tags of days
in the slow waves of a smoke December
on a beach of bones
and fiber optic ragweed
we could find our sinews deep
to pull through clay and teeth
ascend a hilltop's
breathing.
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