Funny Voodoo

You have a funny voodoo,
don’t you?
And stars are
bleeding on me lovely
as the air goes
thick and sweet.

And I’m sorry
I have lost time —
we might have
visited him —
that golden
and trembling giant.

Now all the angels
sing of autumn
and the bittersweet
nuance of loves.
And I chase my shadow,
remembering winter nights
when we wondered
if we’d ever feel warm
again.

The spiders have returned
to weave webs in my hair.
Side by side,
we spin our threads
of vision
where impossible
is not.

And there is sweat
on my neck,
on my cheek,
on my back —
even in the singing dark
as we grow drunk
on summer’s fruits.

Fevered,
our shadows fetch away
and roam the night woods —
and you kiss away
the salt
while I sleep.
And we both
know better
than to believe
in endless anymore.

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About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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