Blood Daisies

Lambs don’t touch in Tehran or Tel Aviv or Toronto.
> Blood daisies mark the first time he was a Sunday Demon.
> The wind cannot leave the seed, we damn ourselves leaving it,
> carelessly.
> Lambs don’t know the planting, but make masks of it that are not
> shame.
> Wolves chase them down, the blood daisies become orchids, that rip
> away masks.
> The moon comes to light the loss, ruddy and excited, a weight that
> lasts forever.
> Perhaps lambs don’t touch, but they can entwine spirits, without the
> need for more.


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