30 June, 2017

If I were to deny your color

And build upon the starless orchard

The globes would start to tilt the ocean

The coned vernacular would mix the traces

Meanwhile the sexes dying thirsty

Would make the longing a false question

Whether art or thou is primitive enough

There are no people to fulfill it

There is no truth to empty sets or voyages

There are no stories for giggling traumas either

The voice with which to build upon has never been

So brutally uncomprehended

As there and there the ground is but denial

Soil of matters or bewitchment

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