38 suns rise from your swollen seas
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scintillant like the unblinking hangnail of a glorious moon
or the pungent blood-tang of the cut Acacia
I gawk like a flower at your blossoming suns
My petals waving like frenzied masts
But there is no wind, not a whisper, nay a drop
There is a still sea around us.
I wait like the Acacia.
Pregnant with unalloyed lusts
for everyinch of you.