“Maybe Magic”

4 Aug

“Maybe Magic”

Maybe on the death of each horizon

when birds hatch prematurely

and the hens of our throbbing hearts

cast prophecies

spores on our witch thighs,

Bengal tigers in our witch breath,

we travel on a cold magician,

in spite and anger, spiral on spire,

a spell renewed cast aside,

a chocolate trunk,

crying in the darkness, a rug now made

of once our lies and as we lie

animals and instead of magic on a beach

on a wounded slipper night

when seashells hurt inside you

and we kissed to frostbite

a dawn erased

no one will find our fossils

if we swing through the trees

fast enough to outrun our shadows.

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