two tanka
the dead
gather white shadows
from the past. . .
real marionettes
have no strings
a certain kind of Eden
holds me thrall. . .
your eyes
are a green twine,
the saddest rope
gather white shadows
from the past. . .
real marionettes
have no strings
a certain kind of Eden
holds me thrall. . .
your eyes
are a green twine,
the saddest rope
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