Were-Poet

Were-poet,
the shift of marvel and wax and
no luxury of wait
I am lit, unclasped in my season, restless. Tilt.
There is a mirror spanning each of our sleeping coasts
your defeated windsor
my bluebrave bias
(the print in the fabric, dreaming in curves)

This song?
I imagine a chime in your breast, magpie,
ringing in a western snare of light
with each (every {always}) mention of your name.

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