My heart is a stopwatch shuddering and burning to death. It is a one-hundred-year-old nutcracker inspiring me with her scintillations at the Christmas table where the moon unwrinkles. Those of you who are now persecuted, what gods and what madness brand your century with the espionage of unoccupied faces under the blue sword? A crisp garden scene beds where the shadow bled from couplets to vulture in a train blackened by the sex meteors coloring my peace. Smoke knocks on the planets: hammering and woeful rust. Now we smudge out a mosquito, reddening John Barclay’s Pauline commentaries.

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