By Tamsin Smith

sift in silence

down the milky column of

moth-occulted midnight

the crooked fable will fork

to cobblestone runway

sink to a carpet of poppies

stem-split by a preordained polarity

each side swinging


dutch doors unlatched

an opposition akin to

two hands missing

an intended meeting

loose itinerant icebergs

paroled but purposeless

such requisite debt

is known in the bone

it forms the frame

as only one hand

can another

affix the arris

shape the sharp edge

between surfaces

so from dreams

we may safely pass

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