Ashes are what we own

sweet potato moon goes up toward an orange pith sun but never makes it
not wanting to slide forward past the marijuana-tinctured dark
while here, on a sphere some don't deserve, a songthrush asks a question
but craving for wet chemistry overrules one's better sense

shapes woven of thunder spasm the old steel bedframes
why can't a person lock away stolen kisses for days like this?
come winter, crescents of evaporating snow left by heels point
horns back to the nearest door bolted against too much world

when one is born as a moth it all comes involuntarally
every twenty-four hours another pearl button, pink and cream,
do not answer the bird so he'll keep coming back to this railing
and once the future's been read in peelings write down what they said

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