Sunset in a tropical zone,
I imagine the moon
a cold stone,
pressed to my temple,
an ancient rune,
the familiar face night’s thrown.
I lie awake.
I beg for it,
that faraway, frozen knucklebone.
Sunset in a tropical zone,
I imagine the moon
a cold stone,
pressed to my temple,
an ancient rune,
the familiar face night’s thrown.
I lie awake.
I beg for it,
that faraway, frozen knucklebone.
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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