and let your breath hang low
to hover and stain the curtains?
Will you let the memories become
dry grey stones streaked
white, itching with , shriveled vines
withered hands brown and curled?
Suspended in a box you are,
diorama hanging from strings made
of twilight.
Think, then, drink instead
the deep,sweet wine of your days with
the Ocean, under her in the blue cathedral
of her womb,
on her supple belly.
Guzzle the nights, the incense, the smooth
bronze country of a woman's shoulder.
In the thundercloud of your brain, tell
me of the electric magic of
ON and OFF dancing
through your fingers and making
rivers through your head
and tell me if you be truly dead.
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