Would you come back if I said the earth
was at the tip of my fingers
like a charred branch already cooled?
birds often die deep in your blond hair
they adopt the sea as a vice
because of its sonorous seaweed
and runaways coming undone
too late to be born each second
on their knees before the faces whose every color
is a holy wafer
like a throat seized by cattle who devour a sunray
would you come back if I said the earth
was at the tip of my fingers?
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