For fire to bloom a rose
in the middle of an ocean
a boat must burn

For our pens to mate
the red velvet chair
must hide in a dungeon

For a steeple
to spiral across night sky
a man will lose a hand

For me to open
the Iron Gate for you
I must lose wings

-- shields for my eyes
from the glare of
an old target: the Sun

Dawn I / Leslie Marcus

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