You are the turning
Of a clock’s own broken hands,
Matching where treatment has been made
Upon wounds so heavy.
Your face, the music of my disgrace,
For I cannot but leave these ambitions, behind
To make something of better signs.

Treat your wounds,
Dear sister of a better night,
For my own shall find sadness, elsewhere,
Other than for such grim misfortune.
Leave your wine upon the table,
That we might find safety in the stables.

Upon the hay
Where we may roll
Like the sunset never dropped
With our tears.
A burning to our skin,
Upon legs, to make into withered ash,
With our faces, loud as the din.

Singing above,
Like children, below,
We have starved ourselves of the stars
And its milk.
Life, so transparent,
With love, so unapparent,
In streaming lust
That burns from us,
Just us.

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