Retrograde | poem
Chewing blue lips,
I retrace steps through stars,
flirting with moons.
I choose
to peruse stardust,
not blood.
Maybe this mess
is crucial, a reverse foxtrot
of love, where I stumble
over toes, numbing spines
to dip deep
and long.
Maybe this mess
is sacred, a puddle
of black matter flattening
my frills, clipping me
to the edge of God’s
belly ring.
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