if my feet will float above the ground
to take me to my ship of angles,
if the veins of leaves
blowing in a purple wind
will turn me into articulate smoke,
maybe the rocks will speak for themselves
and pour like concrete,
maybe rivulets of hot ink
will bisect the raging sun and suck me in,
maybe the ground will sin with me
against the dying day
and stringy devils live again
in my swooping songs.
Maybe the walls will blow like wands
and the museum of ice
become a lasting bronze.
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