the air is open

when will you return?

your white sleeves
stumbling in the bell mouth
of evening

where they had first touched
(they forgot) the garden’s green
inches on the field where night

winged light

litters the steady
sweep of scythe

glimmering where it
meets the wheat

watch: scarcely mauve, how the
oracles of pine speak filth ,
poised as cathedrals

in the summer’s stingy air

born to the field’s brimming edge,
Ersa watches for dawn night after
night in the shrapnel
chorus of stars

deep to the sky’s ceaseless hinges

stiff with life, the soul vows
the world cannot love it – smakka–bagms

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