the nightfield lit by wheatsheaves
the moonsoaked hands
of me reaching

beyond the dismemberment of blue

where
the blooms break to pieces too
small to rescue

could you bear
the sound of this empty forest

the wolves too starved to move
into the mouth of dark rain

before we were pluralized
before i betrayed,

and was betrayed

what is the means of a failure?

cosmos stirring like milkbroth
in the basin,

the wet stars move
slick as marble

up the thigh of oblivion -smakka–bagms

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