The Darling Heart of WinterAmy King
I see you from faraway, almost from noon. You walk through the studies of literary history as a stand-in for worn-out clouds that never shed footnotes. They were burnt by the sun’s black chalk approach and dollar bills gazing on a land of characters fast asleep. We may still cleanse them with a figment of our primal indifference. Stapled pages hold greatness in trajectory. You suggest with open mouth we leave the faculty party to prevent a thumping rain where under down- pour, dried ink on hands softens and masks words in talk white bubbles through which we speak to recount our mutated birthrights. Not all time forgives discursive acts. Even within, we pray sequins reflect the weather in tints. Later we see a key, and enter home, at least, a sepia photo of a front door opening. Nothing reflected we left it. We stayed up all night coloring winter in. Before us, someone will come to adjust in treasure map lines a planet this day furthest away, departure by taxi.
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