Patchouli
it’s only that I think of you
as a wagon
or a mule with legs that
point to the stars
or a soft language
waiting to stroke a mirror
in a swamp
everyday is a new instrument
lavishly completed
like a part-time cane
the language of night is a prosperous sheet
full of delicate assumptions
the language of night is fragile
like a warm net full of rumors
I want to give you a box of signatures
that include all my perfect moments
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