Wednesday, October 11, 2017

common

paint my limbs tourmaline
with a finger trace honey-ink upon scars
feed my numbness to wild canaries at a quarter to eleven
amber moon softened to pink
fog drifts into forgotten corners
and the mouthes of owls
who knew wool & wealth would chaff
the empty graveyards of October
rain will come
tomorrow
and
we will dance in skirts of stone & tulle
remembering the taste of
apples
and
autumn


rain will come

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