The Furies
our love - it wants
a new wound
a body, more beautiful,
to condemn us to want
an empty jar
beneath the earth
a mouth without sound
a double knot to
bind, without cease or order,
my arms to empty memory.
The Well
i keep my love
on heights
bearing remnants of proud anger.
it sinks in bitter swamps
guiding wounded kisses
through open windows.
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