Places for what we become

 

 

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Low as the twilight owl,

high as the scalp of hirsute stars

dark as the wolf-eye wood in moon howl

you and I are fireflies fading in a blue and green vase.

 

Cold as the ice that thaws

warm as the blood that flows

our faces emerge from alkaline

then disappear like meadows of Palestine.

 

You and I are parachutes of pollen impaled on the gorse,

we drag our seeds to barren ground swollen by a river off course.

You and I are caribous with trees that grow from our wearying heads

we drink where yesterday bleeds in a field of sky painting a thousand reds.

 

Cold as the ice that thaws

warm as the blood that flows

our bodies are two perfect oars

rowing back to the mothership naked in Gods robes.

 

 

 

 

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