The Sonnet of Fallen Saints Or The Nights Capillary

i. Desire churns in troves, sugars the insides of my thighs with stars, his face in laminated silver. The tiles heave with the sheer weight of it, this shuddering fever, this grace, this vivacity. Diamelas in the blistering. An iguana in the desert, equipped with fangs and an eye for the dreary. There‚Äôs a shiver … Continue reading The Sonnet of Fallen Saints Or The Nights Capillary

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