Midges
Do
lovers ask themselves: our love, will it
add
anything to love? – so does
the
fruit of a womb maintain the
doggedness
of dying –
Something
dreams itself lost within us,
something
wants it random, something
survives
it, just as
above
night’s newly fallen snow
melting
in the midday sun
that
cloud of
dancing
midges –
a
mere image, lighter
than
body is ever.
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