Not Nausea

One day we walked
from our homes
and in our Terror
        the Raw world
        disjointed our knees.

Hands slipped from our wrists
attracted to radiance,
   which is;
and blood, the faucet of is,
        stopped
Itself, an evaporous
ink, dried, of the
   funny valour it once
   bestowed on avarice.

Some plucked it from
   veins like so many
   ripe cherries--
   little deep rose deities.
Their mouths agloss
and dripping.
Some gaped in desire.

And could we ever
issue ourselves like stems, seeds,
and the poise that captures
the whole of falling
of all that becomes
a decaying cherry

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