We are the palace doors,
hinging upon the Night-side of Things.
Our crooked edges
shaped by the Jigsaw.
Only the broken follow the Jazz of our Curves.
Our Smiles can be on sideways
and they think we've become windows.
Our purple-wine chimneys
billow cavendish smoke,
go smooth down the throat,
and wrap around every ones' heads.
We pump our blood to the bed-chamber,
where we sleep and flutter
during dreams of Real Love.
What besieges and what retreats
is the mystery we live and don't know.
There is no table to calculate our worth.
Copyright 2009
Copyright 2009
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