Nails, Cygnets
in empire,
whether we
illusion or silver
cut with roses
are we & glass
the coal or sky?
morn,
look,
the play-tufted
rain we fruit.
but are the deft
wholly prompt too?
& why horizon's
hopped to it,
flesh knew,
unless joy?
comfort craves
vanity
with sound of
gold hands
cracking
together &
burning blue
down where
we've perched,
new,
converging
dark
in flowers.
festive belly
tamed, we've
nailed shut
every cygnet.
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