Much of the night hosts its own chariot
i unwrap the hands of my fists at last–, & smile in the fields;
in the ceaseless updraughts, my face is target
your light grows the moon, an arrow of heron salute
the colour of your solid time, is with me

Where much of the moor is dark, barbs rust rave, shift, and move
-unlike my body climbing over, as lights do not
know inside dusken moor eyes, swaying in the river’s guts
hammers that turn the water into animals
and creatures that ballot against fake parlay.

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