I can't shake this little feeling
I'll never get anything right.
Take me take me back to your bed
said the Winchester, as she barked a bullet
wishing through the heather & bushes
toward your bright white throat.
I know, you're Egyptian, a slurring
swirl of emotion and paths of history
marked by strange sediments of loss:
ash, iridium, some glance of daylight
shed, but for the grace of God, goes I,
into the wind. It is hear that we've seen.
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