Sick, the Blind Poet Stares at the Moon

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I am a sweating coldness on the bridge, deaf stick white above the lake’s water. Up there, moon (don’t lie) you’re blind as me: poor fúck, skyridden, sick, skin bathed in coppered light. We comprehend each other in silver: the air, brailed up between us, bloodtallic.

I search the silence my reflection is, beneath a sweat of lake. We are two sight- less fish, each pent against the same invis- ible barrier: larval in our night.