White-haired stars

From "Dialogue with Albertine"

The stars crawl like ants

on the blue vault of sleep.

Sheets and shoes with insecticide:

the staircase is sacred, full moon passage.

I cling to white sparks

friction. The body in liquefied flames.

Turreted, I get dirty from soul heights

loose, still soft and laryngeal

suffocated and glass bells

to measure breath. dozed

with legs that contract. Prints

behind the neck with angel figures.

Marina