from between the cutting waves
oceans of leaden numbers
from the windows of collapsing towers,
ticket windows on fire
with beautiful departures,
dove's wings on a ridge of frozen milk
clacking like the body of a bug.
My quill fingers pick up liquid smoke,
I can't speak to the only one I love,
my lungs are a map of her ways
who walks the balconies connecting
these boiled islands
her powers give the red hallways
a glaze of polished salt
flickering with tidal shadows,
the cloth that wraps her
is pressed against my mouth,
the glory and the ferment
of the trees and their reach
is entirely within her,
I am wept by lights of the electric streets
whipped naked at a dead bus station,
if I conquer these peaks of sand
I'm still a slave to her autumnal enigma,
the grave glitters, her speckled beams
deliver the roots to earth
to make me her couch of birches.
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