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you tell me that the leaves of the sycamore are starting to curl
at the edges
and the purple of the thistles deepens like expensive silk.
with a swift gesture that takes possession of your needless
melancholy
(your pale longing, uncalled-for in the turmoil of my blood)
i brush away this early autumn from yet another year of waiting
what do i care, i have my poppies, wounds breaking open
on my skin of delight, their flames hidden
behind the veil of my hair (otherwise
you would have gone blind by now, my gentle love).
i am the exalted gardener of a poison you'll never know,
blessed be my pity.
soon, very soon, they will open their hungry mouths to devour me.
and you will climb your sycamore, trembling
for a glimpse of the holy, still unable to see
the face of the god in my exacting arts of destruction
when like the old queen of Carthage i glow
towards my erasure, my glorious feast,
alone.
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