The perfumed satin trees are at my back.
Three suns are circling the stressed planet,
a fourth is on its way like a thrown raid.
And everywhere blue light, blue light
through the masks and keyholes
of this generative stranger's house,
blue light as I fall to my knees
on a white bearskin rug,
staring at the shutters that flash
my name in a spellbound code.
The horses, the horses, the horses.
Snarling through the vortex
like a snake not bound by time
carving the wheat field, hissing past
the walls of oiled stone.
At the well's mouth in a lunar haze
a lichen coated tongue mocks
this disembodied water from gone faces
the glaze of consciousness is on a maze
of birth outside the reasons for that birth,
a miracle of mirth in rhyme
blue light from necessary slime.
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