TROUBADOUR
star-lit fragile gateway, suspended, a hatch that flashes open, shut
in, out—the troubadours tell tales of all its meaning
the dusty corpses of our lovely corruptions hang limpid,
awaiting reanimation after years, days of gestation . . . the nascent life.
bones accumulating, organs palpitating though softer, yes—so soft
the eiderdown its shroud, its gown and muffles the murmuring voice
but certain, while the ballads brim forever in exordium
it moves in gentle terror of what’s to come
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