In this violent milk of night no stars
Fall
from our furtive hands
But still we open
Our bodies to
the light of a voice
We open arms
To
the lustrous and feathered
Groove
of a song a bird or more
Likely
an arrow in vertical flight
Shall we abandon our breath
Quivering
beneath the weight of a wing?
Shall
we crowd the first broken note
Fluttering
in the wake of discord?
We
are the weary but defiant sigh
The wounded prey waiting
For the invincible laws of rhythm
To
strike a final blow
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