Those nails meandered
On the plain of fabled bulbs
And burnt grasses where sloth is frost
Culling down the transparency
Of the red heron fluttering within
The skin stretches beneath your sweating hands
(and ask me what happened within)
If the meter disclosed the count of pulse
That collided with the sound of ferry
Bruising over the hairless chest of water…
But like any dream
Left untouched and fathomed in the chest
You would row away
For better curves and dices
And the snow you touched
—shall forget the loyalty of memory
Over gendered overtures that
Propelled the ship for glass-hours...
When would the moon stand perplexed
When would you dip in the house of sunburns
And gather all my limbs under your clutch
When would the finishing strokes
Set me final in the hall of memoirs
And incite the pulps for a frenzied stand?
When would you drip
like shots of sugar and please being with me?
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