• Vol. 07
  • Chapter 11
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the oscillation from Apollo’s lips
bury me, this womb of glass seas,
relief—a meronym of death’s faces
the last dream my mother gave
to me. Embalm the clavicle
of the tree, widowed
to the eyes, mesmerized
in celestial dying things;
broken sunlight(s),
and milk from the bosom
ancient of woman
in dark places. Bury me
with my fingers
lazuli to the Erebus
threnody, first a dream
within the red-hills
the moon’s décolleté,
as I kiss the hands
in an era with parallel limbs
to the autumn lotus, and veins
of perfume from Paris.