Amberlee Robinson Poems

The slipped finger pinched, ten seconds of an inch. Steadied and poised mental equilibrium.
Point of order to a pointed process of growth. A hint. Two stars in Ursa Major, the line of which points to the North star.
For he is my method. My heart. My Bow, may he take my Horn and make it Blow for the deepest darkest parts of me aglow.
Mavourneen, just remember to not hoist me upon the wall, drink from my vessel affixed to your neck, mating together, golden fleck.
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