Not tongues, but the intention
of doing business—I have to see
you, soon under ostrich feathers,
Or between the veins of trees, lines

in skin tracing positive spirals away
from the anchor keeping you on shore.
Warm breeze blows west, so that is

where you can find a way to tangible.
There’s a new one, this firewheel
shoreline keeping me from your system,
yet the other hand is not a problem…

I favored you, tried to get you
to stay in shadow, stay lip-locked
and off display in the underground,

To lead us away from the dead.
Your humid storm cloud composure,
defiant jawline tracing the way
to your delicate throat. Choke

of moonlight waiting for sunset’s
magnificence to fade, fizzle to matte
truth–You gave up our location

long before I chose to throw
the white star coveted in your reddened
palm prints across open fields,
surrendered myself. Consequences

give us spectral lingering to hold,
withdrawals from lack of your thunder,
static sky with no release of rain…


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