by Susan Perly
We are entering the mouth of dark
in every paint dream,
we are sailing on night feet
into fleet gold and the twisted weeping.
There are small moons outside our
hearing, small dragons stains
above us
in the too bright.
In our lucid mournings
it is way too bright
for our brains.
This dark
This gold
This footed mud with eyes
This footed mud with eyes
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