The streets are my body
or rather the wish
of the skin to put on
the grass in a gold rain
not vice-versa,
the lips twisting to allow
the tongue to play in
the broken mirror on the floor
Catches an arm
a distance
the light
at the ceiling
This kills
the lift begged
of a magical hand
I have walked a long way
traced in these pieces
an arm
a crotch The queen
of faerie guarded
by blue-winged griffins
Untouched by
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