Unavowable, us, after midnight’s plash has darkened The storefronts and filled the cabs, Leaving behind a keening the flavor of turmeric, Yellowing the air, acquitting the moment From historicity. What exists but now, wet and pulmonary, Rinsed of context like two glasses used to mix a drink, What’s not soluble in liquid exchange? Personally, I’d trade my kingdom for your clavicle, The chance to draw a bow across the viola of your hips.
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