swing

the winding gold is

false as water
the gods running on its back

lost as men,

the paper flowers in her tiny hands are

dancing in a twisted crinkle

the wine is ready for tasting,

the blood seal and the map have

opened into rose leaves,

the green and webbed tinder of her mosses

around the fire’s lashing branches
she is the orbit’s glow,

the visible, smooth circle of love

that bending dance arcs

and the spin moves us closer

in the silence of the heart drums

and sets us alight with

the sparkling murmur

of our eyelashes meeting.

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