I have a love
for pure reconnaissance.
The remit is to see it, to hear it
as a sounding of waves
as a collusion of faith.
But then
the eerie, hopeless
and faithless —
turn it to fodder
and holy hell
if I can’t stop her.
Horror chases me down,
& I lose it,
throw the damn board
(fuck you all)
screw it.
But then,
the ambits resume, again
as a silent grace
probing for traces
in out of the way places.
Tarrying betide
trailing edges
for kisses, mutilous
or shred. Goes
straight to my head.
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