Sewn Into the Wingspan of Grace

Love whose voice is a river flowing towards sea, whose collarbone is a railroad carved out of ivory, whose pulse is a drum in shaman season. Love whose hair is sewn into the wingspan of grace, whose belly wild dogs recognize as the moon, whose imagination has survived a baptism of floods and sings the sunrise in perfect pitch. Love whose mouth of echoes always sings back our way, whose eyes of honeysuckle midwives birth pure sweetness, whose hands dig down deep into the underworld where we waltz amidst the wreckage and the dead.

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