The time filled day

plasters itself all over the body;

wears it like paper

frayed where it has torn.


There is the sweep of it

like the wind with its overing

and the broom with its hush hush hush

along the floor’s crevices.


Tidal with the moon and never

whiter than when it is

with its whiff of blanket fold

and the curve of it downwards.


It has loomed the blood

felted it with the gentle incessant rub rub

and now so fine thin

rice paper smooth; fragile.


Milked and trembling

the paper sky filaments

are all ready to rest;

moonbeam bones.




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