BROKEN VENEER BRITTLED CRACKED FRAUGHT LOOSE DUSTED DUST TO DUST TO THE WIND BLOWN TO THE WINDS DISCOMBOBULATED MY UNDOING UNDONE DISSOLVED APART IN THE HEART ARCHIPELAGO EVAPORATED ASUNDER IN SHREDS WISPY THIN AND COOLING ANNEALED IT SHOWS ONLY JUST UNTIL QUICKENING MAKES SENSE AND POSSIBLE ONE THREAD COALESCED YES CONFABED CONFIGURED RECOVERED DISCOVERED AND COBBLED BACK GALVANIZED TIGHTENED RETUNED REVIVED REBOUND AND PRO FOUND NOTHING MISSING IN FACT THE SYNERGY NOTEWORTHY NEVERTHELESS IT WILL HAPPEN AGAIN IT WILL HAPPEN AGAIN
Helen holds hands with thunderheads. It helps when she's weak in the knees, lightning running down abductors, running down bones. Even temple guards succumb to such days, soft as pillows - scarlet velveteen on silk sheets. Pink cyclamen bells the air, and Helen cut her traces. Bridget dreams the summer wind. Its susurrate moan rises in waves, swells with tides of sandalwood to chariot the night. She spins rhapsody around its howl, dawns a golden jet stream on spangled festoons of cirrus. Weak knees fly off with yellow wind, before Bridget stills the night. Sicily wets her lips with limoncello, quells the rabble of heartache, the clatter of waiting. She rings goblets like temple bells, makes a sound map for lost days. Her boat of pink sand brims in blood oranges and cyclamen. Lightning festoons the rabble, Sicily finds Helen’s hand.
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