Here is spangle and filigree; yards 

         clean as fresh-made beds or cake 

tops of piped buttercream. In the night,

         a sifting of cold  as you sigh through

mists of sleep.  The heart's burrow spirals

         like a snail's, crackles with residue

of reflected light. Somnambulist on the high 

         seas, aerialist on the ground. Every new 

wave gathered with foam could herald the next  

         unseen explosion.  Clear a path from your door 

to the end of the street. Keep going until the white-

         sleeved pines change out of their gowns.

They don't speak of beauty or pain, of whether or not

        they deserve the world or the world deserves them. 

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