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
