Rebeca Cygnus
A drizzle of pollen
Sprouts from the panes.
The heart is, itself, inscrutable
A silhouette of various tenants
Chewed to pulp and redeemed as fodder.
–
She sells seances by the seashore
An envelope ripe with indigestibles.
Draw all the lines you like
But no one escapes the need for grief.
She traces wasps in the condensation.
A hunter, worth a moment of scrutiny.
–
She is conjugating in response
To a primitive truth.
Is this how we are to live
In the spirit’s wake?
Is this how we are to live
In the place, in the face
Of all these gathering births?
Is this how we are to live
Too far down to get ahead?
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