the dawn runs its tongue
along the back of my neck,
melts it like sugar, licks the sweat
off of my body as if it were
blooming.
tell the story to the corn wound
tight like a dainty waist. it listens.
grain mother,
help those whose mouths are full of
foam, as if the ocean is leaping up
and out.
this is the end of winter. burn those
who curl their chapped lips
around the dawn.
give us oil from stone.
we are pilgrims,
fires full of stars.
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