this is the edge of woodland,
the stammering sainthood
of starglint

ambiguity of breeze slipping
as vague shapes in the trees

some paws, some wings,
the drifting form of dragon

while the hoarfrost fringes of
heresy grows in rows of
mutilated harvest

for you are
whom you have entered ,

carried off by the whim
of the pines

the morning is brine,

thistle and thatch ,
cinder and ocher

daylight softens around you
in the viscera
of animal body

my silence, the sea, the wolf
the fig tree

the burden of an
unformed thought

, you have me -Smakka–bagms

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