Heaven Fay Biography

how like pollen were the hands of that beautiful Hunter.
her mouth matrilineal of midsummer,
she took foal through the spine and ate messily that ambrosia.
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She doesn't stop coming.
In the dreams, and into them.
There are choirs announcing her.
I kiss her eyelids
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At the very least, yours is the first mouth.

Yours is the dandelion tongue that scatters me into pasture of blueberry, of apple soft with bite, of wind begging your Icarus heart:
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