you might want to think of every breathing

thing as a fighter

something drawn out of a wildfire and made

strong for its own defense

 

the need for circles

the size of dark horizons seen mid-air

 

onyx reaching the riverbed first,

century-long heirlooms defying the dusts

of post-war realities

 

we approach each day with the 

reminiscence of cotton on porcelain 

ashtray,

we cannot always remember the dark long

after our bodies have drowned in the light

 

our eyes, as all other paradises, were made

to fall for the wholesome,

broken amour in a museum of acrylic tint

 

as opposed to how men want it, we are

breaking free above the periphery of owls