re-melding
it’s the song of the melding
the blending of dark into darker
of slag-stone roads shining wet slide up
down along the long moon hours
when around any corner widening eyes
might stir faster feet wary of the darkness
of the wayward stone’s tripping and the
trundle of nonchalance in flaring nostrils
and frowns so much more fleet-footed
than our bedclothes would ever warm
on an icy night such as this
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