I'm sitting again with the face of another,
Branches and buds in my eyes,
Clouds on my tongue
and
the Mistress of the Dunes now looking back,
her 108 ways of seeing, her hundred and ten hands,
fragile, like
the fabric of early morning mist…
tender, like
the touch of temptation.
The future has no script, its theme is "impermanence", its vice, "death"…
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A Visceral Path
