That gone summer, my heart was rolled flat
to cut out the shape of water
with a sugared silver punch.
Ever since, light passes through me
giving neither shadow nor
what falls away uses the petaldrop
of old flowers to synchronize
its random strip, sliding
unimpeded through the moon
while the red warrior glow
is just a waver
waived to witchlight in
the bloodshot eye of night.
Image: Untitled, Zdislav Beksinski
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