rug fibers on bare feet
head lit up in an abandoned workplace
the silver racks move past
from ghostly hands to ghostly hands
they cross crude rivers of gold
the path is lined with
choruses of spaghetti
slithering to the two eyed night
one dark handed painter
giving glitter to clouded daylight
and peacock outskirts to the rain's door
stairwells blooming in the eagle scan
of left behind winter
fiddled electric landmarks
in the crucial dawn
where her ribbon was the only one
and the rocks cried out from
her honey running
bright racks in a fishpaint lane.
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