If the cloud edge puts on gold and dances

If the cloud edge puts on gold and dances above me,
I may want to curl my tongue around it.

If the man peeling clementines splits the pages open,
I may taste the air between us and moan.

If the sudden notice of death hangs between me and the next book on the stack,
I may want to dedicate my body to science before I’m dead,

want only my spirit to leave me,
become flamenco and dizzy,

an ant full on watermelon,
forgetting the line of his brothers,

knowing nothing but bliss.

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