COIN OF THE REALM How valuable to tremble, in your presence, a shudder of vowels, praising the white shoulders of sleep. Light swallows sleep and roosters. I listen for your mysterious breath, tunneling lonely towards morning, dreaming of columbines, guitarrons, and citronella. In night s tender moss, the smell of roses is an arrow on fire. We take aim and find first light like cool milk. Drink to a day of stringed instruments. We take the open road. Count off twenty centuries. I am afraid of nothing, but with my body of skin and music awake.
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