In the smoke of morning, she takes

off the sun’s clothes for me,

holds them up by two fingers,

before letting them fall upon

the earth.


Like the saddest animal,

I burrow in the warmth

of what’s balled up and left behind.


With grey in my beard,

I claw some prayers

in the stone cave of our night sky.


From the floor, I pray

for a good hunt, a sigh felt through the ages,

and for an archeologist

to one day read my scratches

by candlelight.


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