The Shadow of my Desire





The Shadow of my Desire


Bladed fan, painful stuffing, where are the night ladders recalling jungle bypaths on which we walked with sand-clocks remembering noonday lips and stares, labyrinths of smoked stars?  I feel them rising again like Lazarus, hallucinations milking my desire.  Bladed fan, painful stuffing, today is the funeral of the cruelest metaphor.

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