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You dig the hours and leave no milk
display delicious round breasts to the sea
and leave before entering its waters,
you ask the trees to call the rain
the birds to sing to your face wrapped
in grapes of light, to your hands
tied in an hour of flames.
Far, in the ancient ruins of Greece
echoes come back to you
to ask for your stare to lick
their wrecked bodies, liberate them
from lamenting corridors.
Instead-you turn,
toward a gold meadow
hardly breathing hardly moving enjoying
Now a fainting bridge
separates you from your gaze
descend from your hush from the safety of your sleep
from the frozen suffering of your people
from the lost rooms from the trees you ordered to kneel-
descend from your hush hunt
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