Claire Goldstrom

your sun is beaming at me
and I can't look at it anymore




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preen and still warm tones of adjustment into the tender balking of
sunspots backwash
stamen kisses the knees, whistling hatches as
the harkened mellows ration
Seaspit in my chasms
landscape knee pads in sand calling my name from the other room
I lived in shallow breaths for the rest of the night
pouring brine in my hounds drinking bowl
sparks of tape scattered across my bedsheets

face turned south, christened in dusk
to grovel in transit of spit

//

tarlatan, hammered tin, wax

home installation under quarantine; in the space above my pillows
installed in early april, this work remains in place