The Empress wanders long lanes of night oak. She looks up from the portrait, west, into the lowering lids of buttercup.
From “Turifumy of Butterfly Breathing – after Anne Siems”

Your body is more like a gesture than a thing.
More like a song than a gesture.

A skin boat
Rises on the breast
Of an unswum sea

I came at a wee hour
into my miniature existence.

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