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Feb 2
i hide from you because you're prettiest in starlight
so i starve the day away in running from what might
have been made had i not leaned so far on the fur-bristled
fancy that i'd always see you best by being sat tilted back
on the triangles singing glitter webbed in crossword shadows

in midsummer hedges which line like silver-pillow piping the highlighter patches in a softly throbbing england leveraging
under utter comfort the lambulbs dickens left hidden in a ticking golden glow, laughing

but you don't see me, too easily i slip into some silky something that screens my skin in black obscurity, so i run halfway across the world and line ivy leaves instead  with a shuddering golden lining, coughing blue-brick city smoke with the glow from weeping bathroom windows; framed in smooth plastic beams set

and maladjusted, we love them for the solitary light they send into crowded streets breathing breaks of summertime glass
tripping mirrors like disco ***** from their lips, shaped against their face exactly how they is, how they would be, had we forgot
they got a look that hits from the street striking love like naked

dew in glass bubbles resting still and cold by consistent and indented belly buttons who heave and hollow in blind hesitation beneath a wobbling shower curtain from which she steps
in making theatre, aware of how her hips move thorough
but just as if, had she been certain of someone watching

she'd never have the force to break dimensions
in that way -- I would have been a wardrobe, varnished and clunking degrees of spirals ornate, collecting the ticks of English countryside clockwork within me, filling the grooves that miss
with tufts of old carpets patterned with humdrum hope

that one day they would fly; or, an added bit of mechanics
fattening up the edges inclining on the cold of space
which shimmers along in what was serious and sharp, coating the inside of such golden lock; left open - we're shocked, wardrobes
in old houses were meant to be secret, but honest - you just gotta

try it (like when at five we fingered a skeleton leaf, and realised
the world is whatever we might say it is,) and all of winter's there
inside; hidden; bright, the taste of dawn before it comes, its skin pink and blue and shakes fresh and frosted landscape on barely risen peaks, points misted and freckled and running in time

to make a song into history that beats like heels on concrete or
the mark of birds pinning themselves against an autumn glaze-glassed sky - I'll trust you find the key and the snow'll be pressed clean just enough for you to leave your footprints in it, that, or i'll turn it into the felt of the inside of the jewellery boxes

that huddle in the back of me beneath shoulder pads and jigsaw puzzles and lace eaten ruffles and all the other reality; the ends
of trouser bottoms, and an irrepressibly dead silver moth - that ladybird who had peed on my hand who how dare she be so magic and have excrement just like me? - so I copy her spots

and pull a dress from the hanger just like the tablecloth smelling faintly of cat dust and sunlight and your mother into whose polka dot holes you'd imagine dropping, and, disappearing, and then,
waiting, for someone who can tell that this piece of glitter in your eye is just a sign for how your heart breaks every time you see

a drop of rain shaped like a diamond, because, you know
there's a dragon inside - and darling, I know, you just want to fly
Timbuctu
Written by
Timbuctu
240
       vb, FraisDeLaFerme, M Vogel and Bogdan Dragos
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