If we pass through all the lost geographies of desire
Those lakes, ghosts and trundling worlds
Bouncing words off eachother like ripples
Or like tears in the ether
A substrate folding in to collapse into
Bright glowing instances
That ache with ephemeral cold beauty. This
Would be the sky.
This would be the lake.
This would be the dark rich earth
Crumbly, moist, shot with small lives
We shall die into.



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