Tibet
by Georgina Yael Johnson
Tibet is your country. Chance
to notice face of leavened breech
of promise, you found it wanting there,
in mountains shantifying your hair, as if crueler state must be held
in victory for love to enfold planets too fragile in figment of celestial
filament; finding you here now with all that love and deltas of choice
to trail back to source: that vow, honoured now- to remain in dust
until dust itself is gone.
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