Thursday, February 1

a trade of pacific magnitude (five) (final)


this aching season
you take your box and move away
and for what reason
your delay

there is to be
no return, i have spread
these salts- you once said
it will be another day


the whole red earth, a birthing tune- an ocean
the whole red earth, for what?
my loved balloon, a moonlit notion,
a notational slice of moon.

o say it will be soon, your grace:
say it will be read upon the fishes of your face,
and i'll regain my wasted waist,
my pasty pallor, and lose the feel
of maybe---
what it might be like--
to congeal


how blue are the eyes
that sweetly refuse

o you have had your fill
of these killer eyes
twenty five and wise

and these light touches
are too much: with such
a grip you held my wrist, and sang
there is more to that
than this,
there is more to that than this--
why look wistful? my misty-eyed miss
it isn't so-
this isn't all there is

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