I work to the tune of your aurora.

The floor wears away imperceptibly

as a woman whose dreams have

been munched by the wolf in her words.

The tundra of my inexperience thaws.

On the know-it-all breeze,

laughter that grips my heart

like a hand.

When the pollen heard you weep,

you were sainted by the grass.

Your greens, your purples.

Your lilting light that

whips through my space

like remorse.

Your song is dangerous,


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