• Vol. 03
  • Chapter 11
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Making Stars from Your Sleepy Eyes

There are stories of water-courses on air
but I am haunted with some ruby eyes, which
I have chiseled with my own salts. It's hard not to
get moistened by the lame Buddhas, or the gods
who have gone into innocent oblivion.

Please look at me with the same distance,
with the same ache of unnamable relation, reflecting
me silently on your crystal lattices.

The soul weakens, and goes all frail and malleable. Now
it can be welded into infinite shapes.