The shape of a tunnel, the water where
those under the sun must stare
with two black eyes, for fear that
that will rise again and seek control
or crush the bones of hands, and lift
the gore from the chest
that smiles full beneath the moon.
The shape of water, we breathe like fish
in a tunnel where
the bitter root savors sweet
as the cursed jaw attempts to bless
but falls in the dirt.
There, the tunnel, a gloaming shape
where water moves like raging flame
for two black eyes
and dying fish;
passing away, recreating hope
to remind us for once and for all
of the full, finished work
that rings within our sunken tombs.
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