we will go fishing again in molten
halflight, fishing for souls; and they will clamber
to a blaze, stealing into flame one by one, till the roses’
blueness gnaws boulders, tide, cloud like bare-flanked
gale; and the earth will writhe
inside us, and the stars’ mutter
and the jet
of owls into the dawn, and the trust
of the rain will dive
from its plumes like the word
ash…. a plume is a scale torn
from smoke, a fetish
for ink, a speck
of down; and the earth
will writhe inside
us like a wave

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