A many years of your death Death
think the
smooth white mask equal
which touches on spreading
in the air
filing his black-powder in the dust-
think well of a common ossuary
when surrender or run away for ever the guardians of symbols
legacy ashes
letters.
and I think the word I write and
closing the densest silence
boiling cauldron where possible and
bolts, rust
charging what I say. The passages open
suddenly light as of late, the street in the spotlight
and then, a more accurate shot fades
what the undressing
sun on black-white-
that pure, very brief
true noon.
The tongue is poison.
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