Like sponges dipped in nude
a kiss of guess on the lids-like
discloses its thicket shed, eye-cro meld—
Dawn blinds hair before face
or thornless angelus deceives
but I faint on the figure-eight.
Apparently newshour once came
to complete me but time seems
to indicate moot might intervene
if I with blazing rations wait. Yet
one little breath is misting itself
in suspension, a snapped off twig
or sap that jumps these yawns:—
art’s aspirations leapgap, they make
the ripples on the lake linger
with circle-sorcery. Kindest
thought when all is lost, stray
dice tossed in a flagmap coffin.
Limbs are lethal clamped in sate—
but elusive lines on our palms
resemble a key’s cut, jag-edged
to unlock fate’s chain-chart. Future—
refuting that god who lets opposites
stride your unsaddled carpets.
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