improv for bernie, 111820121309 [draft1]

The thing is wide & white
But bearing a ring of amber
Which carries across memory
_like a whisper-washed hair or
Blade, but I think back on her question
And yes, I am killing myself adoringly
Melting my body to the mat

For this knuckle of pint. When I think

Of her the follies rise,
Precepts enjamb in pain, a sweet round
Aftertaste stalking the long dark nap.
Don’t change a word. You
Are wise & wind torn & yr ears are tuned
_to just
Frequencies — the grass whimpers above each follicle
Lip quivering by truth-run conceit. We have
Suffered, but in my ocean, beside your ocean, …

I think: “Bare it,” I say.

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