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Skeletal Angles

I tie this whole cracked sadness,
silver leaving two arrangements,
holding two heartbeats.
Round it out with a softness.

Everything of skins birthed over,
we open these beggar attempts
at miles, skies beginning
with tenderness.

Believing the oasis
built of light and flowers,
demanding mouths of love
and walls, grains closing harbors.

The angles and words –
we wonder if the sun believes
in vagabonds who move
horizons by drawing skeletons.

Investing in a scream of constellations,
we carry nothing by loving,
almost taking in
the hull of glass and rationality.

Without bones would our words
swallow possibility?
These are fragile hours,
daylight envied darkness unfolding, together.

Placid spills of outward skins,
weary bodies feeling
eloquently bitter,
without time welled under reflections.

There’s something two spaces
imperfectly conduct:
dawning quietness like new grasps of water
shadowing shapeless wombs.

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