Our Own

With our own hands.

Poetry.

Mirror

 

out of darkness.

Mouths

knew too much.

 

Live like this:

The early

astronomers.

 

Like flame.

Then always, like flame.

That tidy enjoyment.

 

This manner is dance.

Unbridled..

Beyond artifice

 

flooded in sun

and regularity,

I have shared

 

that bright seat.

I pause; streaked

by fingers.

 

In a room

half-

familiar.

 

You feel it —

The flash of rebellion

in yielding

 

too far

with crimes

against solitude.

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