It
was you who made them matter, staring in like
a frozen-cold-starving-orphaned pauper child at
frosted-window shielded, steaming hot and dripping wet
fire-food, preaching about the end of the world through
your frozen shut, silent and stained rosemary lips.
A miracle, and I was envious.
Face as black as indigo coal, all
dark, dark, dark
and one golden-linen eye
the world is swathed in whirls of bulbous
platforms, mingling
smoke in star-filled gazes,
smashed like pens stripped
into the ocean,
tides of blood beat the sand,
all the colors smudged like gray in one final
linen
dress.
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