To Walt Whitman,

The tips touch past the collarbone;


and every shudder slips a sigh,


An accidental hinge of throne.





What tightly threads were once sown,


rip by shift of naked eye


The tips touch past the collarbone.



And when a wish, alas unknown


forgets coarse hints of sorry hands,


an accidental hinge of throne.



What’s lost belongs to those we’ve known


but have you ever seen such white?


The tips touch past the collarbone.



The tinge of past reaps far alone,


for no one thinks it as do I,


an accidental hinge of throne.



Who’s slight desire sees his own,


a secret truth from which we hide.


The tips touch past the collarbone,


An accidental hinge of throne.





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