by Renwick Berchild

Faster, the light docks in its crawl. The hall
between her breasts burns like a lemon. The seeds
in her eyes she veils with her arm, dips
her cherry chin,

It’s too bright.

The shutters of the west window are hundreds of miles,
I yearn not to have to cross the rumpled sea.

She is so near to me, her tawny falls
hang off my rounded shoulders as a shawl. Her thumb
drums my jawbone, she begs me,

Fix the light.


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