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now that's just rude. - Tags
black
like memory’s wound,
the eyes grub toward you
in a Crownland bitten
bright by heart’s teeth –
it remains our bed:
through this shaft you must come –
you come.
In the seed’s
sense
the sea stars you out, innermost, for ever.
An end to the granting of names,
over you I cast my fate.
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