The brain makes a room for music. Before there was paint,
there was bone. No one knows
what dreams demand. Last night I fastened a necklace made of stars
dripping cold milk. You moved through shifting boxes
of hay and smoke.
In the morning I open the barn doors to the smell of horse piss, lemon,
hawk and wind. To hear the daily soft sounds of love,
you have to know when to listen.
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