Poems

from 52 Fragments for the Beloved [7 & 8]

7.
 
Your words have become this clay that sculpts silence.
 
8.
 
I wish I could strip the coils of your body to fire your fragility. I want to make it my own. And so mixing myself with the clay that grants your skin and the debris of your blood. And so no place of exile will remain in you. Only the solar banks of these lips that always escape explanation.

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