37.

Window night-frame time of the moon

The rust of these knuckles I write my own tune

Alludes, the salt nothing equilateral

Of tongue elides, denies my dress in bloom.

A lover of broken tithes. you have your rituals

Graffiti score the route to keep you in clothes

The passengers alone to sing you to sleep

With their thoughts the touch of the rose

Dreams of fire at the fold of my blouse

Collide with a weariness in the feel of my paint

That leads to death. the taste of my sorrow

I cannot know is found in my print

You I have lived with and the bold of your hand

All the days. vanishes with magic.