Only a slip of torpor
holds in solemn sweet
the few passed over
moons of basking melt

when we sleep far,
like marks on walls,
a rare morning's
lone song grows rooms
set to open slowly.

Bolder tongues
wear like teeth
in dusky eyes,
dependent to whims
of rooting wander,

so we step
like glass,
chancy masks sagging
from smiles
drowsy with wishing.

11/09/2018

Posted on 11/09/2018
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