It is there that I saw her first;
a dream of who I might be,
someone to quench my thirst,
for a time when I might be able
to write without mirth, to strike
while the time is made stable,
to take flight while my shirt
is off, and my body is trying
to make itself right in the mirror
without dying; do you see, too,
the way the earth curls around
the nape of my whirls, as if skin
itself is crying, as if in my eyes
there is something flying, a hurt
that might one day go away?
They say I looked better in light
that makes it all seem a bit more
pertinent to the needs of many;
I feel I am taken in by plenty
of lights, and broken men who
are fighting over how to right
the immensities that are writ
large upon this unmonstrous,
non-chimeric body. You are night
time, and I am everything aligned,
waiting for temper and vanity
to make things mightier than
how I was slighted.
How they think of one so tan.
What that might mean,
when the fire comes again.
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