Mind, Photographs, Poetry from The Well

Swing the Sun

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You can’t fool me,

icy eyes (heart of glass),

I see your dry hair beneath the mist

I swim inside the hot blood funneling to your

brain and if I must

I will drag through clumps of snow

cased in ice —

I will swing the sun around

so you can crawl over baby

blades

of

grass —

 

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