night falls
feverwinged

anthemed by a small
paradise of heather

the shadowedhooves
of the hunter’s mare

clinging to the dark
in the forest’s
black-pined body

I lean, a moonglow ,
some haunt

of your love’s great
failure

fastened forever
to the ever-tolling of
dawn’s-flushed-bells

we wince
down
to the
mammal bones

illuminating the white-scar
of the evening-valley

I emerge,
the last of the woodwind,
the cloven soul of animal – smakka–bagms (Tumblr)

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