by Paul Tristram
We are now a circle,
complete, compact and concealed
like an anklebone in snow.
A breathing rhythm,
with scent circulation,
warm and moist muscle padding.
Comfort in this darkness,
finger joints: chain locks,
legs: skin and flesh double bows.
Busy in our duel employment,
catching wishful stars
and weaving unrealistic daydreams.
Selfishly happy and contented
in two-seated oyster shell discipline,
revolving together as we roll.
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