In the great gusty nightwind
I hurtle
with no direction
home,
reduced
down
to
the
wire
howlstripped
and stormy.
I extend a hand
blind in the night
between sheets and a thin white crescent.
This is where Giacometti rips the heads off
plasters the eyes
stretches the limbs of it
down
to
the
wire
in
a loving lean
to the
secret.
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