The coordinates of my gratitude

are inestimable.

Somewhere on an earth of regret,

a small point of velour gratefulness.

The small seal

of my face

with the veritable scent

of a name

the size of a fall from grace.

Living at the bottom,

the detritus falls like

snow on the blanket

I never bought.

At the right latitude,

where it glides into

an unresponsive longitude,

the gifts given by the one

who burns my name as incense,

his arms draped in velour.

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