To enter a chamber: more tiny than dusty,/ where jazz inhabits all by itself/ an aging routine, this female presence then feeds the grate with paper,/ash scattered among bird leagues,/ dedicated to seething, scratching ,cold./It forces torsion forever,/ pitting one bone against the other./ That dim beacon, lovemaking;yet and still, we are older,/ the pressed flesh murmurs faraway desires/ the old voice graces dinner, /with serious magic, seen and unseen. An occasion for auras, sunset in candid sensation,/ living long enough on further shores. / Minerals filter though broken skin,/all locked up, only to spew out later,  /crystal not of my making:/ what I make comes from/ the spume of countless waves, /reveals mad sprees. /It’s this cold  room where I grow/the one I live in, /by zigzag and interruption. I was asked to master a dance,/ master a game, results of possession.

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