17th Morning

Shapes render themselves/as other specters/a ease on ill starred avenues/of domes and minarets. /Moods belong to the Satyr/they’re half the shadow/a naïve rudeness/odd about the god./Tint in the root of brightness/off the record, but no,/only the playful skies/this morning: but they’re frozen./Same sky as always, pretending/a quarrel with the past skies /second layer of skin seared./ liberty at the gravesites /in weightless revealing/soul fires generated electric/remorseless in function./Borrowed arms, crossed paths;/the wait for the lightning strike/gives birth to idle saloons

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