Three years here,
battering my foundations,
the resolve gone to re-wake.
And I trip, trip, scrape
into the New Year.
my thighs being my noise-maker,
my shuttering eyes confetti.
In this place, my self
is the inconsequence
of moon heat.
I wane in an arc,
my shoulders curved and wet,
And wax into oblivion
dripping, and sweet-smelling.
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