I scrape
clams
from their
steamed shells,
butterflies
that encase
the soft tissue of lungs
belonging once
To Venus. Sandro
painted her
whole. She was born
a beautiful
adult, reacquainting
the cloistered world
with flesh and
bone, unhidden hair
and human
lust.
I crave here, now
breath fished
out
from the
ancient
theory of
tides.
murmuring -
Songs must have depth.
Songs must be fluent
and taste of salt. Salt
a poignant tang
piercing
the tongue
and mind
with sensation.
An itch
to imagine more
–
what is cast in shadow,
what is left unsung.
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