The cost of desire is a clamour of horses on a glass pavement in the morning.
The man with the lion’s torso and thighs of glass curves through the grey light like a snaking cat.
Curves like a leaf, falls like a blossom, opens like a columbine with an iris of gold.
No spreading beneath the matrix.
No smoke without sky.
Sprouted and purpled, a dying light.

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