What thrills are things a hand can't grasp
the things that roam beneath the lids
of eyes. The archetypes of beauty
stop consciousness, come to you in
traffic, fugues of wombs long gone
and songs that never were
What thrills are things you can't expect
the hounds that bay at moons you dream:
canyons purple
a sky curved blue
the feel of salt seas
the earth within you
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