You thought you could find a
Surface to hold your portraits
But like asking the fog to hold a
Nail you were unable to exhibit
The violence of what was most
Precious to you. Suddenly the wing
Span of disaster
Is what matters
Emanating from the

You are certain
You will have to pay
With the exact change
Of your demise. Good.
Till then blood in the veins and
Relish of trajectory.

A scaffolding of seagulls surrenders up
Into a fierce summoning of moonlight,
You are too much like that
And glad for it

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