Song of Scissors

Walking into the curvature of a spoon
with a head full
of wildflowering gypsy rhythms.
Noticing all that makes up the spine
of feathers and other wanderers.
Make the trip move like rain through sea,
tantalizingly becoming one
while staring straight into an open mouth-
devoured or spoken (same thing really).
When in the notes these drifts
become dunes, nothing is cut away
but layered until greys and blues
twirl over swimming hips.
Trapping only ideas.
Allowing the truth of continuing ruin
to become something new.

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