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20 ℉

He waited,

until the old wine drunk him.

It brewed a illumination of desolate moon.

With pampero, he swallowed into bones.  

It shattered the brisk star tracks,

burned his skin with their dust.

It squeezed a drop of dark bile

from the shining obsidian

in the night’s tear.

Melted into millions of waned crescents.

Quietly the pale paper was dying.

He breathed

until numbness was gone.

He nodded,

mottled bright dimmed his eyes.

He wrote down the first letter,

“I”

Posted 02/13/16
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