nunc incognitae

The days are unknown. Listen.
We will have become in fiction.

Place your veiny hands
on my shoulders

we will be in life
in a cold winter bedroom

late western sunlight
on the wall burning red.

We are the nomads
who left houses
and abandoned love.

Places with wooden tables
drank dark wine
between pursed-lip kisses.

Expect me in your painting
the smell of turpentine
and carving your soul
out of aquamarine.

Your particulates of breath
the canvas

my soul-filled offspring

what is left for you

what is called earth-based


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