This slipped shift,
Lips lick sudden smoke-
The bittersweet gift of
Becoming the mist of oneself.
He tastes her fingertip
But cannot find her hand-
He is now the earth
But cannot walk the land.
Something silent is
Stringing the wings back together
With roots and vein-
This weather of whispers and the
Changing of names.
Steady breath of the new flesh-
Slow tearing of the nets-
The guess of himself,
The guest of himself-
Pumping the fist-pearled blood of his heart-
Its big gusts and gulps drum beaten,
Feeding in the dark.
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