White-haired stars From "Dialogue with Albertine" The stars crawl like ants on the blue vault of sleep. Sheets and shoes with insecticide: the staircase is sacred, full moon passage. I cling to white sparks friction. The body in liquefied flames. Turreted, I get dirty from soul heights loose, still soft and laryngeal suffocated and glass bells to measure breath. dozed with legs that contract. Prints behind the neck with angel figures. Marina
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