It is applying tribal mud
Covering it thick
Like a small bird
Covered in clay
Its wings coated
So it starts to thicken
Turning the bird to stone
Like the people in Pompeii
Who became like telephone calls
From the first century
Something was poured into the hollow spaces
Their bodies occupied after the fire
Don’t you think we could manage that
We could become that for each other
Two hollow molds
The stars seem to believe in this plan
Already they are dipping as if drunk
Now only the bird’s eyes move
The rest of the form is over


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