Images of infinity and solitude,
reverberations, simple country songs
and yodels on the radio. In the static
of the television I think I see her
curving breast, her hips that move across
the screen like planets traversing sky,
her eyes like golden beads. Images of
angels, spirits, enthroned goddesses
with floral crowns. I have imagined this
and that, the possible things, she is
whatever we've conceived. She speaks
alone in the space and it turns into
a brilliant chorus. The images of her
are changing slightly in the night sky.
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