Chromatic Leavings
This place's no palace. A law of snakesong spun
Wild shade bringing scent to assuming/ nothing
As ancient as an arm pushed to the bathroom wall
The locks turned loose in rapid sky. Gladly, I
Mete in stays, hang in, and raise your salts until
Its early flowers. Where your hair lights horns
The exact shade of sand leaves. On a limb and
When the moon is a matching sepia stern. You
Press and press heavy prints in the morning panic
Room, wait up all music. Such hours colour hurt
As you are as sandstone as whet. There has
To be calm during, calm after, the whole misspen
-Ding so semblances segregate true cost from
All richness the moon has tuned to our room
No comments:
Post a Comment