They
venture only into inward dusk –
the
anteroom to certain schemes of sleep;
November
is their favorite month
to
play androgynously with your dreams –
to
beckon you beyond and in and down
into
the deep wherein your body still
remembers
everything: the severed thing –
the
sweet distress of an illicit sexual abandon
which
resides, abandoned, powerful, inside.
You
will descend into, and then ascend
from,
this penumbral ride – hours before
the
morning breaks. You’ll stay awake.
.
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