The sky writhes
in the mirror
at the center
of the labyrinth,
the circle inside
the diamond fulfils
an imagined rose.
We measure
the compass dial
with golden thread
from the well.
We take refuge
on the arrows
and you sleep
in my eyelids
like a grassland
until the new beast
touches the hill.
John Swain lives in Le Perreux-sur-Marne, France. His work has recently appeared in Borderless Journal, DoubleSpeak, and The Rye Whiskey Review.
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