There’s all skins are fluttering
I’ve made a number-plate towards the alluring ashes
My thick bones … no calendars to call her name …
Bubbles of ceramic sounds
Her constellations on her arms,
Moles and membranes on my shirt
As I’ve left the anatomy wool
And papers flying flying through the dark
All dodos are with me on a boat
Sunday dreams and a swirling hue
And the walking doors of a
Foul harpsichord
I’m a terrific ride with vanishing flakes and
Mosses…..
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