162

Through diamond panels, the light crashes in,

and the wet wind whirls and wooshes outside;
the metal tongue lies in practice again,
striving for the fragrant taste of the bride:
New patterns unfold with a certain spice
that piques the palette with broken glass, bones;
and the blood unfurls along the moist ice,
melted by the backward aging of suns:
All the while, the brown bat stutters shitless…
I mean, witless…It's trapped in the wood hall,
flying to live and dying to witness
why I could never be present at all:
Sirens and shards are sudden reminders
of the fact that society hinders.
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