The Devil Makes an Erotics of the Sun
Here now a sense of burning in the rigging of the air.

What, after so long as agent of the untouchable,

what. He has hauled not brightness. Not on his own

flickered lizard grin. Not one such penchant as this,

slack-gold, sudden, and unanimous. He calls up

the shade of Hafiz here to beggar out some habits.

What else can Hafiz say to be but crushed; what

to do but raise a swarm of bees, thicken the heart

with them, and then eat the honey they have battered.

His fingers dream of fire like ten lit candle wicks.

Each carves in the vapor’s glint its own slow O.

O, they hum. Or else exhale. Some heated ceaseless

reap of breathing. Here he can’t confine the wagging

tulip of his tongue. Gentle, brightness; burn me into singing. 
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