by Robert Gross
We go through so many bodies in one another
A melancholy of six or seven behind the blinds
Stitch swarms of ravens on our coverlet
Roam in packs from waves to wasps to wolves
A melancholy of six or seven behind the blinds
Turn up the intersection on our conversation
Roam in packs from waves to wasps to windows
Encrypt a snarl of alertness on our bodies
Turn up the inquisition on our conversions
The static sparks of secret interference
Encrypt a snarl of aversion on our bodies
Scatter reconvene and flock again
Static sparks of secret illumination
Stick swarms of ravings on our coverlet
Scatter reconvene and flocks of pain
We go through so many bodies in one another
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