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Flying Into The Sun's Good Graces
Soil is that destiny - a crow burn't
with his feathers awry.
The asp fills his desert
with lovers' bones. Scurry
home to your tarts, gasping
with memory of breath.
Your cow, wandering afield,
crying for death - dust of that destiny
fills lungs anew - finds our
soft sweet bellies.
Curling our fingers tightly, the ants
sully our old good names,
record them to the queen nightly,
stumble blind, dark, end all games.
