I came calling for kisses,
filling silver carts
with silver onions
calling to the clouds
for golden bread,
making what could be made
with tormented blood.
In the mold with diamonds
jostling for articulate space
watching a fleet of beds
from rooms long torn away
sent into seams of water
with infinite ways.
Let the guitars clang
at their filthy apex
and the dungeon wounds wheel:
let them be ripe for service
at the bright mirage
with the birds that the breezes heal.
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